
Class 13/14 I 

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GREAT PENITENTS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
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MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

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GREAT PENITENTS 



By EEVEEEND HUGH FKANCIS BLUNT, LL.D. 



J2eto gotfe 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1921 

All rights reserved 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 






Copyright, 1921 
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 



Se: up and printed. Published October, 1921 



NOV -2 1921 



FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY 
NEW YORK 

©CU630ia& 



JJtfnl Ob&tat 

REV. PATRICK J. WATERS, PH.D., 

Censor Librorum. 

imprimatur 

WILLIAM CARDINAL O'CONNELL, 

Archbishop of Boston. 



August 23, 1921. 



Ah! is Thy love indeed 
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, 
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? 

Ah! must — 

Designer infinite! — 
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? 

— The Mound of Heaven. 



PKEFACE 

Christianity is a religion of hope. It was one of the 
bitter reproaches against Jesus Christ by some of His 
Pharisaic contemporaries that He received sinners and even 
ate with them. They affected to be scandalized at the 
teaching that it was possible for one who had sinned to be 
redeemed. The parable of the prodigal son, of the lost 
sheep, and other stories, told for the purpose of bringing 
home to men the knowledge of the mercy of God, were lost 
upon them. To them there could be but one treatment for 
fallen women, for instance, — stone them to death. 

The reclamation of Magdalen is a glorious argument 
for the divinity of Christianity. It is only God that could 
work such a change in the human heart. Her example 
has ever been an inspiration in the Christian Church. 
After Magdalen, wdiy despair ? Hers is the deathless story 
of hope. And for that reason she has ever been chosen as 
the patroness of the houses (never wanting, where the re- 
ligion of Christ has been preached) whose doors are open 
to those who wish to imitate the great penitent in her 
penance as they had imitated her in her sin. One such 
house in the Italy of the sixteenth century was aptly called, 
"OF THE ILLUMINATED AND CONVERTED 
WOMEN". There is a wonderful beauty in the word 
"illuminated" as applied to the penitent. It is as expres- 
sive as that definition of penitence given by St. Clement 
of Alexandria. He called it "tardy knowledge", which 
has something of the rins: of the cry of the converted Aug- 
ustine — "Too late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient 
and so new!" 



PREFACE 

The Middle Ages are justly called "The Ages of Faith". 
It is not that the faith has failed in other times; but so 
great were the accomplishments of those days in every field 
of endeavor, all due to the fact that the whole of Europe 
was filled with the spirit of religion, that they are best 
described as "ages of faith", par excellence. In like manner 
the third and fourth centuries may be called the ages of 
penance. It was then those great exemplars of the peni- 
tential life, the Fathers of the Desert, flourished. There 
is no more romantic reading than the lives of these men, 
and women, too, who fled from the riches and the pleasures 
of the world, some of them sacrificing rich estates and posi- 
tions of power, to give themselves to the practice of austeri- 
ties, the very relation of which makes us weaker ones quail. 

Those were days of glorified penance, when the world 
was amazed at the sufferings of these "holy criminals", as 
St. John Climacus calls them. Many a book of great 
penitents could be compiled from the Lives of the Saints. 
We have passed over most of those whose lives are readily 
accessible, who may be called the traditional penitents, like 
St. Mary of Egypt, St. Augustine, St. Thais, and St. 
Pelagia. 

In this selection of penitents there is the design to show 
that every age is the age of penitence ; that every day the 
Prodigal Son is coming back home to his Father, in the 
twentieth century as well as in the third, joyfully testify- 
ing to the old truth that it profiteth a man nothing to gain 
the whole world and suffer the loss of his own soul. These 
men whose stories are told here are witnesses to the wis- 
dom and the beauty of the penitential life. Their sacrifices 
were heroic. Possessed of the genius or the wealth that 
got for them the flattery of the world, their one care, once 
they were "illuminated", was to atone for past sin and die 
well. Yesterday their lives a scandal, today an inspiration 
to all who, like St. Teresa, see in the penitent sinner an 
incentive to renewed searching for the mercy of God. 



PREFACE 

The author hopes that these stories of "GREAT PENI- 
TENTS" will be of service in providing spiritual reading 
to the individual and to communities; that priests may 
find therein many hints for addresses to sodalities and 
other societies ; and finally, that the book may find a place 
on the "mission table" to help in the great work of re- 
claiming souls to god. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Fool of God 1 

The Jesuates 19 

The Gambler — St. Camillus De Lellis 31 

Abbot De Ranee 51 

Silvio Pellico 76 

Paul Feval 99 

Father Hermann : Musician and Monk 120 

J. B. Carpeaux 137 

Francois Coppee 148 

J. K. Huysmans 169 

Paul Verlaine 194 

A Litany of Penitents 224 



GREAT PENITENTS 



THE FOOL OF GOD 

IT is not by that name that this great man is known in 
history. His intercession is sought under the beauti- 
f ul, God-given name of St. John of God. But somehow 
we like to think of him as the mad penitent, wandering 
through the streets as a poor fool, the sport of a sneering 
populace. The proud world of John's day, time of Spain's 
glory when new worlds were being discovered every day 
and men had the lust for power and money, considered him 
a poor harmless sort of creature, if not a burden to society. 
Public penance for sin ! Who ever heard of such vulgarity, 
such utter simplicity ? Why, of course, he must be a fool. 
A fool, indeed! Yet he was God's own fool, Heaven's 
court jester ; he had learned the folly of the Cross If he 
went through the streets of our own cities today he would 
be locked up as a vagrant, and learned boards would be 
called upon to pass upon his mental powers. But the fool 
became a very wise man. It was just because he found out 
what a fool he had been in following the wisdom of his 
very wise contemporaries that he was able to establish his 
great work of charity and finally win the gratitude of those 
who once had laughed at him. The man who considers 
himself the worst of sinners, who offends the sensibilities 
of the dainty with the sound of his self-scourgings, is al- 
ways the one that has the gentlest touch for others. The 
greater the penance, the greater the charity. The greater 
the realization of sin, the greater the effort to atone by get- 
ting nearer to Christ. And the nearest way to Christ 
leads through the alleys of the poor and the sick. The fool 
of God became St. John of God by following that path. 
John was born at Montemor o Novo in Portugal in the 

1 



2 GKEAT PENITENTS 

year 1495. The day of his birth was March the eighth, 
and by a strange coincidence March the eighth was also 
the day of his death. It was not a high position in the 
world to which he was born. He who later on was to be 
the friend of kings and nobility was of the poorest of the 
poor. His parents had nothing of the world's goods. They 
belonged to a low peasant class. But poverty was no 
burden to them. It did not prevent them from being 
especially devout in their service of God and in sharing 
their little with those who had less. His biographers tell 
us that there were signs at his birth indicating the future 
greatness of the child. However that may be, the little 
John was brought up by his sainted mother as one who 
was particularly favored by God. He might never be 
great, but he must be good. So his boyhood years up to 
the age of nine were lived under her watchful eye in 
innocence and great piety. 

It may have been this very piety which was the cause 
of the beginning of his wanderings. For some reason 
which we do not know the boy one day left his home and 
followed a Spanish priest to Oropeza in Spain. It may 
have been with the knowledge of the mother or it may have 
been without it. We rather believe that neither the priest 
nor the good mother knew of the lad's plans, for the 
biographers speak of his "mysterious" disappearance. She 
was heartbroken anyway at his absence and died shortly 
after he had gone from her. 

Why the priest did not send the lad home at once when 
he came to him at Oropeza it is useless now to seek to 
discover. What he did was to find a home for him as a 
servant in the house of the mayor of the place. It was a 
good home for the boy. The mayor was exceedingly kind 
to him and gave him every opportunity to advance, being 
won to the lad by his fine manly character, his devoted- 
ness to duty, and above all his great piety. John spent his 
boyhood there and grew into manhood. So fond did the 



THE FOOL OF GOD 3 

mayor become of him that he was willing that John should 
marry his (laughter. Willing? He even insisted. But 
John could not see things that way. Why he turned down 
the offer of the lady's hand we cannot guess. It was very 
likely for the very good reason that he did not love the 
girl ; or it may have been that deep in his heart he felt that 
he was called to other things in God's good time. But the 
more he tried to put off the match the more the mayor 
insisted. It speaks well for the character of John in those 
days that he was considered such a desirable catch. But 
he was not going to be caught that way, and, thinking to 
settle the matter, he enlisted in the army of Charles V. 

That did not settle the matter, however. John was now 
more appealing as a soldier. The young lady's infatuation 
increased at sight of the military grandeur of the man 
she loved and the eager father again came to him with 
the proposal which meant position and money. John was 
sick of the importunities. If he was going to marry he 
would marry the girl of his choice ; he would not have his 
wife picked out for him, even if that wife was the daugh- 
ter of the mayor. He determined to get away from the 
man who wished to make him his son-in-law, and put miles 
between him and the grieving lady by going to Hungary 
to fight against the Turks. 

That act was the undoing of John. It was a far cry 
from the quiet life of the mayor's house to that of the 
camp. He was then twenty-seven years of age in the 
full vigor of manhood. He had come into a school which 
did not make for sanctity. Many of his new companions 
in the army were youths to whom licentiousness was as the 
air they breathed. It was a corrupted society where a 
youth with pretence to piety and morality was a strange 
being. The evil examples daily before his eyes did their 
work. In time John's piety wore off and he became as 
easy a liver as the rest of the soldiers. 

During those thirteen or fourteen years that he served 



4 GEEAT PENITENTS 

in the army there was little good in his life. He was a 
soldier of fortune, wandering about from country to 
country, filled with the restless spirit which characterized 
those days of great discoveries. Yet we can well believe 
that all the while his conscience was bothering him as he 
sought to find his pleasures in this free and easy life. He 
got tired of the army life eventually and left it. It was 
the beginning of his conversion. He knew well the destruc- 
tion which the army had worked in his soul; his piety 
gone, his morality gone, the great things for which as a 
lad he had had ambition impossible now of attainment. 
He was over forty years of age, the best part of his life 
had been lived, and it was all wasted. 

To one in distress the first thought is that of home. Out 
of the mists of his evil years there came the face of the 
mother who had instilled her piety into his soul. He 
would go back to her and seek to atone for the long years 
of suffering which he had caused her. But there are 
some things a man never can restore. The ex-soldier came 
back to Montemor; she was not there waiting for him to 
make good all the years of neglect. The grass had been 
growing on her grave for more than a quarter of a century. 

John did not remain long in his home town. There 
was nothing there to keep him. Every day brought him 
fresh memories and more bitter tears for his rank ingrati- 
tude, his forgetfulness of her. So he set off again, back 
to Spain, and next we find him working as a shepherd for 
a rich lady near Seville. It was a menial position for 
the once gallant soldier, but he felt in his heart that it 
was better than he deserved. The thoughts of his youth, 
of the mother he had treated so shamefully, burned into 
his soul. He saw himself as he was — a wastrel. His 
sins rose up in all their enormity before him there as he 
tended his sheep, and he wept bitterly for them. The real- 
ization of his wasted life made him determine to do pen- 
ance. He lost no time in making plans. He set about 



THE FOOL OF GOD 5 

the work at once, and gave most of his time both day and 
night to prayer and acts of mortification. Ever before 
his eyes was his past ingratitude to God, and he lamented 
it from the bottom of his heart, wondering how best he 
might show God that he wished to make up for the wasted 
years. To do something for God; that was his desire. 
The years of service in the army had made known to 
John what misery there was in the world. In his contin- 
ual travels for those twelve years or more he had witnessed 
the sufferings of others. One class of afflicted that ap- 
pealed strongly to his tender heart were the slaves who 
were carried off into Africa by the Moors. He immedi- 
ately made the resolution that he would leave his place as 
shepherd and go into Africa to attend to those afflicted 
ones, and in so doing win, perhaps, the crown of martyr- 
dom. 

But God had other work for him to do. When he ar- 
rived at Gibraltar, from which place he was to take passage 
for Africa, he fell in with a Portuguese gentleman who 
w r as being exiled with his wife and children to Barbary 
after his estate had been confiscated by King John III. 
What the man's offense had been we do not know, but 
whatever the cause the only thing that John knew was 
that here was a fellow being in distress. His new idea 
of the service of others was strong within him and he in- 
sisted on serving the man and his family without any 
remuneration during the voyage to Africa. So earnest 
was he in that charity that when on landing in the country 
of his exile the gentleman became very ill and was obliged 
to dispose of what property he had remaining in order to 
care for his family, John went out to work as a day- 
laborer in order to support them, and even sold whatever 
he himself possessed to help in the work of charity. It 
was, though he knew it not, a prophecy of the days to 
come when he would take the very clothes off his back to 
give to the needy. 



6 GEEAT PENITENTS 

But John did not win his crown of martyrdom. His 
confessor, to whom he opened his heart, assured him that 
his desire to lay down his life in this way was an illusion. 
Perhaps he was not over-impressed with this ex-soldier 
who at forty years of age yearned to lay down his life. 
Go back to Spain, was the common sense advice of the 
priest, and John immediately went back, disappointed no 
doubt that God had not accepted the offer of his life. 

John was in earnest in his wish to help in God's work, 
but what that work was to be he had not yet discovered. 
He wasted no time in useless pining, however. As soon 
as he arrived at Gibraltar he became a pedlar. He can- 
vassed the towns about Gibraltar selling pious pictures 
and books of devotion. He was thus one of the earliest 
apostles of the press. There was very little profit on his 
wares, but the new avocation brought him in contact with 
people and gave him a chance to do missionary work by 
exhorting his customers to virtue, confessing to them very 
likely the miserable defection of which he himself had 
been guilty. But though there was next to no profit in 
his small line of business, he saw the demand for his wares 
increase so much that he decided to open a small shop in 
Gibraltar. Perhaps he thought himself settled for life, 
content in this small way — for the humility of the man 
did not permit him to aspire to big things — to help the 
cause. Meanwhile he had time to give to prayer and to 
the works of penance begun when he was a poor shepherd. 
Up to this time John was what may be called an ordinary 
penitent. He became a great penitent in this way: 

One day while he was engaged in this work of apostle- 
ship the Infant Jesus appeared to him and affectionately 
called him "John of God," and directed him to repair to 
the city of Granada. "Without knowing why, John closed 
his little shop and set out for that city. 

The celebrated Father John of Avila, now known as 
the Blessed John of Avila, was at that time preaching in 



THE FOOL OF GOD 7 

the city of Granada. One of the most eloquent preachers 
of all times, burning with zeal for the salvation of souls, 
his sermons were known to convert whole congregations. 
It was the feast of St. Sebastian, the beautiful soldier- 
saint, and John who had been a soldier, too, but in a man- 
ner far different from the martyred Sebastian, listened to 
the great orator as if the occasion were for his special 
benefit. His eyes were now fully opened. He saw him- 
self in all his misery ; saw that the penance with which up 
to now he had been satisfied was but a life of luxury 
compared with that which his sins demanded. At the 
melting words of the great preacher he could not restrain 
himself. He burst into tears, raised his voice in lamenta- 
tions, beat his breast in sign of his sorrow, and begged 
God for mercy to him a sinner. 

The congregation was amazed at this exhibition and 
pitied the poor fellow as a bit touched. But John cared 
little for their commiseration. He knew only that he was 
a great sinner and that it was necessary for him to atone. 
Out of the church he came and, carried away by his senti- 
ments of self-humiliation, ran through the streets like a 
madman, tearing his hair and crying out what a sinner 
he was. It was a strange sight, the man running wild 
with a crowd at his heels throwing sticks and stones at 
him and abusing him in such a way that he came home 
covered with blood and dirt. To the crowd he was nothing 
but a poor fool. John did not resent that; rather it 
was music in his ears to hear himself called a madman. 
The occurrence gave him a hint as to how he might do 
penance. He immediately gave away all he had, reduced 
himself to absolute poverty, and then went running through 
the streets again confessing his life of sin and begging 
God to have mercy upon him. Surely he must be mad, 
thought the onlookers, and some of them, taking pity on 
him and wishing to protect him from the abuse of the 
rabble, brought him covered with blood and dirt to the 



8 GEEAT PENITENTS 

preacher whose words had stirred him to this strange 
method of doing penance. At once the holy man saw that 
in this strange penitent there were extraordinary signs of 
virtue. He allowed John to make his general confession 
to him and then gave him good advice. Evidently the 
good advice did not include the prohibition to do the 
peculiar public penance, for soon after that John was 
again running through the streets as a madman doing the 
ridiculous things which had attracted the attention of the 
public to him. Now he was deemed truly mad, and the 
authorities had him arrested and confined for observation 
in a madhouse where he was treated with the utmost 
severity in order to curb his insane propensities. But 
severe as was the treatment John did not resent it. It 
was truly very little suffering for one who had so deeply 
offended God. 

John's one earthly friend at that time was Father John 
of Avila, who alone understood him. He came to the mad- 
house to visit John and found the poor penitent near unto 
death from his sufferings, covered with wounds and sores, 
yet longing for still greater penance. He knew that the 
madness of the man was the searching for sanctity. He 
told John that he had done penance enough of this kind 
and that now it was his duty to give himself to a course 
of life that would be of more benefit to his own soul and 
to the good of his neighbor. John listened to him as to 
the voice of God, and immediately became calm, much to 
the astonishment of his keepers, who very likely thought 
that a miracle had been done by the great preacher. He 
put off his madness, ready as always in his humility to fol- 
low the advice of the holy priest. He remained for some 
time longer in the hospital, devoting himself after his 
own recovery of strength to the other patients. 

That short period of caring for the sick was the begin- 
ning of the work which has made the name of St. John 
of God a blessing among the afflicted. On leaving the 



THE FOOL OF GOD 9 

hospital lie was advised by Father John of Avila to make 
a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady in Guadalupe in 
order to ask her advice as to the work that God wished him 
to do. It was during that pilgrimage that Our Lady mani- 
fested to him that the rest of his life he should devote to 
the sick and the poor. As he returned to Granada he 
knew not how that work was to be done, but, as if he must 
be doing something for the poor while waiting for God's 
will to be made manifest to him, he began to collect wood 
in the forest and carry it to the marketplace, where he 
sold it to get money to supply his own little wants and to 
help the needy. 

In this condition of destitution there came to him the 
inspiration to found a hospital. One would think that 
John was not yet over his madness. He had nobody to 
vouch for him, he had not a cent in the world, yet he felt 
that his life work w r as to care for the sick and that in 
order to do so he must have a hospital. One day as he 
was walking through one of the streets of Granada he 
chanced to see a house to let with the sign, "House to 
let, to lodge the poor". It was like a divine invitation to 
him. He sought out the owner, who, judged by the stand- 
ards of the world, would seem to be as mad as John him- 
self, for without finding out whether John had money or 
not he let him the house. And John knew just as much 
as the proprietor when the rent would be paid. It was 
rather an uncertain beginning of a life-work, but strange 
to say this unbusinesslike method of procedure was the 
beginning of the great hospital of Granada. John had 
his hospital; the next thing necessary was the patients. 
But to get enough patients was the easiest part of the 
work. The humble little hospital was soon discovered 
by the unfortunate and John was impatient for the place 
to be filled. He was the only attendant for some time, 
but, after working hard all day long about the hospital, 
he would go out into the city at night to bring in new pa- 



10 GREAT PENITENTS 

tients, carrying them on his back if they were too weak 
to walk with him. At night also he would go begging 
the necessary supplies, but after a while it was unnecessary 
for him to worry about the means to carry on the hospital. 

It was soon discovered that John was not mad after all ; 
that he who once had been followed by the rabble in the 
streets of Granada could now be seen in the darkness of 
the night carrying some helpless individual to his home. 
Before long, the good people of the city, seeking to have a 
share in the pious work of the holy man, brought him 
more than enough of supplies. And in addition to that 
many of the priests and physicians, seeing that the new 
work must be of God, nobly seconded him in his efforts 
and gave him invaluable assistance. The archbishop of 
Granada, seeing what an excellent institution this new 
refuge was, gave it much material aid and, greater than 
all, his protection and approval, and the king's chaplain 
sent him enough money to supply the place with suitable 
beds. Everybody, in a word, wanted to have a share in 
the charitable work. As John used to say as he went 
through the streets, rain or shine, begging, "Do good to 
yourselves, my brethren," so they felt that in helping him 
to help the sick they were conferring an everlasting benefit 
upon themselves. 

With John it was first of all a spiritual work. To re- 
lieve the physical distress of the patients was not his only 
concern ; he wanted to save their souls. So no matter how 
vile the applicant was he was received into the hospital; 
the viler the better. That course, however, brought criti- 
cism upon him, and even the archbishop spoke to him of 
the danger of such a course to the good name of the hos- 
pital, telling John that he had heard how he received 
tramps and fallen women. John admitted that he had 
taken in such persons but, said he, "If my illustrious pre- 
late and superior will condescend to visit the hospital he 
will find no abuse, and he will be convinced that there is 



THE FOOL OF GOD 11 

no one in it who deserves to be driven out but myself. 
Were I to receive only the just our infirmary would soon 
be empty, and how should I be able to convert sinners ? I 
confess that I do not acquit myself as I ought of such a 
ministry and that I do not correspond to the grace of my 
vocation, and, therefore, I say to Your Grace that I 
deserve to be driven out from this holy house." Even the 
archbishop could find no argument against that, and John 
was permitted to receive whomsoever he wished, and that 
was anyone with ills of body or soul to be cured. 

The work of the hospital was an assured success from 
the beginning. The patience, the charity, the simple mod- 
esty of John impressed everybody. It was an honor to 
help him. The hardest thing was to restrain his gener- 
osity. He actually gave the clothes off his back. If he 
met a beggar poorer than himself he was not content un- 
less he exchanged cloaks with him. The bishop of Tuy, 
an admirer of the humble servant of God, thought out a 
plan to prevent that. He designed a habit for him and 
ordered him to wear it. This dress became later on the 
religious habit of the Order which was founded for the 
followers of John. He himself in his humility had never 
thought of founding an Order, and it was not until six 
years after his death that the rules which now bear his 
name were drawn up. ISTot only did the bishop give him 
his new habit but he ordered him to be known by the 
name which the Infant Jesus had given him — John of 
God. 

It is related that the Marquis of Tarifa who had heard 
such wonderful stories of the charity of John determined 
to put him to the test. He came to the hospital repre- 
senting himself as one in distress who needed money to 
carry on a necessary lawsuit. John gave him all the 
money he then had. This so impressed the marquis that 
he sent him a great sum of money and ordered that every 
day he remained in Granada there should be sent to the 



12 GKEATPENITENTS 

poor in the hospital one hundred and fifty loaves of bread, 
four sheep and eight hens. 

Not from his neighbors only did John receive help. We 
read in his biography that help came to him in those early 
days of struggle even from Heaven, and that St. Raphael 
appeared in person to aid in the work. The worldly wise 
might sneer at such stories, but there is nothing incredible 
in them to one who reads of the ceaseless devotion of this 
poor penitent. Surely God Himself was there in the 
midst of that devotion to the sick and poor ; why scruple 
to believe that the angels also delighted to be there ? 

It is related in the life given in his office that one day 
the hospital took fire. Fearlessly he rushed into the midst 
of the flames and carried out on his back every patient 
and, even though at one time he remained in the burning 
building a full half hour while the flames seethed about 
him, he came forth unharmed. 

But the humble man was not master of the elements 
only. Not only did he conquer the flames ; he conquered 
also the more destructive passions of men's hearts. Short- 
ly after its establishment the hospital of Granada was the 
scene of such a victory. The story is told by Digby in 
his Mores Catholici. Antony Martin had imprisoned Don 
Pedro Yelasco on the charge of having killed his brother, 
and had come to Madrid to hasten on the prosecution. 
Antony, though a proud knight, abandoned to a life of 
worldly pleasure, had nevertheless become known to St. 
John of God by means of a practice of visiting his hos- 
pital, and the holy man had recourse to prayer in hopes 
of reconciling these two enemies. Meeting Antony in a 
street he presented him with a crucifix which he always 
held in his sleeve, and urged him to pardon his enemy if 
he himself wished to be pardoned by Jesus Christ, "If 
your enemy," said he, "killed your brother, our Lord died 
for you and me; and if the blood of your brother cried 
for vengeance much more should the blood of your Saviour 



THE FOOL OF GOD 13 

move you to forgiveness." These words pronounced with 
a pathetic tone pierced the heart of Antony Martin ; fall- 
ing on his knees before the servant of God he promised 
with tears that, from that moment, from being the mortal 
enemy and the proud grandee he would become the friend 
of Velasco and the servant of the poor. "I will now lead 
you to the prison," said he, "where I shall embrace Velasco 
in your presence and then deliver him; and do you in 
return lead me to your hospital where I may consecrate 
myself to God." 

After these words they walked together to the prison 
where Velasco was each day expecting death. Great was 
his terror on seeing Antony Martin enter, but the servant 
of God gave him speedy encouragement. The two knights 
embraced and gave each other the kiss of peace ; they mu- 
tually vowed an everlasting friendship ; and thenceforth 
their hearts were wholly fixed on Heaven. They both de- 
clared their resolution to serve the poor in the hospital with 
St. John of God during the remainder of their lives. It 
was an admirable spectacle shortly afterwards, as soon as 
Velasco could leave the prison, to behold the holy man 
walking through the streets of Granada having on each 
side those two friends, once such implacable foes, now so 
closely knit together in bonds of grace ; they were on their 
way from the prison to the hospital which they never left 
afterwards. A long retreat and a course of instruction de- 
veloped and completed the conversion of these two noble- 
men, who became eminent servants of Jesus Christ. 

And thus these two men, who had once been the scandal 
of the city on account of their dissipated lives and their 
enmity to each other, became models of virtue, all through 
the kind example of John of God. So much did Pedro 
Velasco humble himself that he used to call himself "Peter 
the Sinner," while Antony became so devout, so earnest 
in his charitable work, that John recommended him as 



14 GEEAT PENITENTS 

his successor in the management of the affairs of the new 
society. 

The charity of John, however, was not confined to his 
own hospital, much as he loved it. Wherever there was 
distress there was he to alleviate it. All the poor were 
his brethren. He sought to save them from the sins to 
which their poverty might lead. Thus one particular class 
of people that claimed his attention were poor young girls 
who through poverty might be induced to fall into evil 
courses. Others who claimed his special care were the 
fallen women. He took pity upon these poor outcasts, 
sought them out and, holding his crucifix before them, ex- 
horted them to turn back to God as he wept for his sins 
and theirs. No wonder that by such wonderful kindness 
and compassion he was able to make many converts. No 
wonder that the movement of which he was the head suc- 
ceeded miraculously. The beautiful sight of this man de- 
voting himself for the love of Christ to the poor was a 
perpetual sermon, a sermon all the more effective in that 
he who silently preached it was too humble to think that 
he was doing anything extraordinary. 

The poor soldier, who once had been a wanderer over 
the face of the earth, was now sought out by the kings 
and queens who, knowing his great virtue, wished him to 
be their almoner. But great as was their confidence in 
him, it never turned his head. He was ever in his own 
eyes the unworthy sinner to whom should be given no 
glory, only humiliation. The story is told that once a 
woman who had imagined that she had reason to have 
some grievance against him called him a hypocrite and 
loaded him with abuse. John quietly slipped her a piece 
of money and begged her to repeat in the market place 
all her abusive language. In another that would be a fine 
bit of sarcasm; in John it was merely the desire of the 
saint to have greater humiliations. It was an echo of the 
early days of his conversion when he would insist on being 



THE FOOL OF GOD 15 

regarded as a madman. Nothing is said as to the woman's 
subsequent action, but we may wager that she was too 
much ashamed of herself to do as the holy man entreated 
her. 

Thus was John of God the helper of the poor, the friend 
of tramps, of poor students, of widows and orphans, of 
the fallen women, the friend of everybody indeed, but 
more than all he was the penitent, the seeker of his soul's 
sanctification. "What doth it profit a man if he gain the 
whole world and suffer the loss of his own soul?" were 
the words that directed his life. His was a life of action, 
but with the action went prayer and meditation. He was 
forever tending the sick, yet he was forever practising the 
most severe austerities. He never forgot that there were 
long years in his life for which he must make atonement. 
The years were short in which to do penance; he must 
make up for lost time. His meditation was ever Christ 
crucified. "Lord," he would say, "Thy thorns are my 
roses, Thy sufferings my Paradise." 

It was a short time, indeed, as years go. Ten years 
he had labored in his work of superhuman charity and at 
last the worn-out body succumbed. It was fitting that his 
final illness should result from an act of heroic charity. 
A great flood had come upon that part of the country and 
John as usual was in the midst of the distress caused by 
it. He had overworked in helping the poor by saving 
wood and other necessaries, and in this weakened condition 
had jumped into the water in order to save a drowning 
man. He had failed in the attempt, but wet to the skin 
had kept on working, making light of his condition. 

His companions in the hospital insisted on putting him 
to bed even though he rebelled at the enforced inactivity. 
He could not imagine why a man with only a slight cold 
should be compelled to coddle himself while there was so 
much to be done for others who were so much worse off 
than he. He was not inactive at any rate, for he took 



16 GE EAT" PENITENTS 

the time of what he considered an enforced vacation to 
straighten out the accounts of the hospital and to settle 
many matters about the government of the institution. 

But everybody else knew how serious the illness was 
even though John himself made light of it. Quickly the 
news spread through the city that he was dangerously ill, 
perhaps near unto death. To the hospital hastened the 
sick and the poor who had been the object of his benefac- 
tions. They found him in his cell, lying in his poor habit, 
his only covering an old coat and his pillow the old basket 
in which he used to collect his alms, now taking the place 
of the stone which had ordinarily served him for a pillow. 
Among those who came to see him was a noble lady, Anne 
Ossorio, who had always been one of his benefactors. 
Seeing him in such a pitiable state, pitiable to her though 
it was a delight to the man who so loved penance, she se- 
cretly sent word of the conditions to the archbishop and 
begged him to command the sick man to do her bidding. 
Thus armed with the authority of the archbishop she 
made John consent to leave the hospital and suffer himself 
to be brought to her home where he might receive the 
proper attention. It was far from pleasing to the dying 
man but in his deep humility and spirit of obedience he 
made no objections so long as it was the will of his su- 
perior. Perhaps he felt that he never again would return 
to his beloved hospital. If so, God's will be done. He 
that had divested himself of his cloak for the poor of 
Christ would not object to forego the happiness of dying 
under the beloved roof so long as that too was the will of 
God. He gave his last instructions to his brethren and 
appointed Antony Martin superior in his stead. Then a 
last visit to the Blessed Sacrament in the chapel and he 
was ready to leave. During those last days in the luxuri- 
ous home of the noble lady he chafed under the kindness 
of his attendants. "Who was he to have such comforts 
when his Lord had suffered so on the Cross ? His Saviour, 



THE FOOL OF GOD 17 

he said, had been given gall to drink and they gave him — 
broths. 

The room of the dying man was the resort of all. The 
nobility came, so too the magistrates of the city begging 
the saint to give his dying blessing to their city. It was 
the supreme humiliation to John. Who was he, poor mis- 
erable sinner who had been such a scandal to all, to pre- 
sume to give them his blessing? If they wanted a real 
blessing let them seek the prayers of the poor and of his 
brethren. And it was only when the archbishop com- 
manded him that he finally assented, giving his blessing 
to all while at the same time he exhorted them to do pen- 
ance for their sins. John never preached better than in 
those last hours as he stood at the threshold of death. It 
was a sermon to draw the tears of all who heard him. 

To give John all the honor in his power the archbishop 
himself came and said Mass in the room and prepared 
him for death. He could die happy now for the arch- 
bishop promised him that he would pay all his debts and 
continue to look after the poor. As the end approached 
the dying man insisted upon getting from his bed and 
laying himself in the form of a cross on the floor. Then 
he arose on his knees and in this position, before the altar, 
rendered his soul to God on the eighth day of March, his 
birthday, in the year 1550, the very year in which was 
born another great servant of the sick, St. John Camillus, 
a penitent, too, in many ways like to John of God. 

And now the man who was once pursued through the 
streets of Granada as a madman had come into his own. 
There was no honor too great to give him. His funeral 
was one of great pomp conducted by the archbishop and at- 
tended by all the clergy and nobility; and more than all 
by the sick and the poor who realized that they had lost 
their best friend. 

St. John of God was not soon forgotten. His few pos- 
sessions became holy relics. The staff which he had used 



18 GEEAT PENITENTS 

as he went about collecting for the poor and seeking out 
cases for his charity became a relic celebrated throughout 
Spain. It was deposited in the hospital founded by a 
noble Spanish lady who had given her own house and her 
fortune for the purpose. It was finally encased in silver 
by certain persons in gratitude for miraculous cures 
through the intercession of the holy man. 

A beautiful touch in the story of the mourning for 
John's passing is that he was quite as much lamented by 
the Moors as by the Christians. It was a proof that he 
had been a friend to all. 

The work established by John of God still endures. It 
is needless to go into the history of the order of the 
"Brothers Hospitallers of St. John of God," the name 
given to the Order of which he was the real founder, al- 
though the rules were drawn up only after his death. 
Speedily it sj)read all over Europe. Today it numbers 
more than a hundred hospitals in Europe with some thir- 
teen thousand beds, and over fifteen hundred religious 
who to the three solemn vows of poverty, chastity and 
obedience take a fourth one to serve the sick in the hos- 
pitals. Still do these followers of the humble penitent 
meditate upon his words of advice to his first followers: 
"Labor without intermission to do all the good works in 
your power whilst time is allowed you." 

Many miracles were wrought through the intercession 
of the saint, who was beatified in 1638 and canonized in 
1690. Leo XIII made him the patron of hospitals and 
of the dying in 1898. 



THE JESUATES 

IEEMEMBEK hearing the late Abbe Hogan of 
Brighton Seminary, who did so much for the forma- 
tion of clerical opinion here and abroad, warmly de- 
fend the Salvation Army when a thoughtless person made 
fun of its bass dram and popular song methods of religion. 
With his broad mind he saw what moral good was effected 
here, and especially in London, by the irrepressible army. 
He saw it in its philanthropic work — and if philanthropy 
is not the sublimest motive power to the human soul, it is 
better than laziness, better than a quietistic mode of ex- 
istence that suffers the submerged tenth to sink so far be- 
neath the waves as to make rescue impossible. 

To praise the Salvation Army is not, as some would 
seem to imply, a rejection of the infallibility of the 
Church, nor an assertion that their propaganda is not 
amenable to criticism. The ulterior motives may be at 
times those of the anti-Roman proselyte. Be it so or not, 
it is for us Catholics to utilize the present results of their 
work, to perfect what they have begun, to lead into the 
true Fold those who are brought by other hands out of 
recesses into which we might not be able to go. Cardinal 
Manning, in his great apostolate for the poor and the chil- 
dren, recognized this. His Sympathy with the philan- 
thropic work of General Booth was never disguised," says 
Hutton in his life of the great churchman, "and he was too 
much of an organizer himself not to look with admiration 
on the order and discipline of the Salvation Army." And 
he goes on to say that with their simple faith, belief in 
God, sin, a Redeemer, the Bible, Heaven and Hell, far 

19 



20 G E E A T PENITENTS 

from Catholicism as they still are, it ought to be easier to 
guide them aright than many others who have higher theo- 
logical and ritualistic pretensions and a less real, less ar- 
dent faith. Some have quarreled with the methods of the 
Army. Men who choose to fancy a religious message in 
a Wagnerian music drama, or feel compelled to cut into 
a Pomegranate of Browning for a substitute for the Ser- 
mon on the Mount cannot view the Brigade on the street 
corner but as a travesty on religion, of the same genus to 
their thinking as vulgar Catholicism — something for the 
poor, ignorant crowd. There are many Catholics who 
share in this antipathy to the advertising of God to the 
public. By them religion is confined to the church, or 
the innermost recesses of the private chamber, and of a 
necessity it must be tabooed in polite society. In fact, 
any extraordinary means to gain a hearing, and to win 
souls to God, is frowned down as non-traditional and 
therefore to be scorned. 

The Catholic Church, it is true, does not take kindly to 
the ink of the advertising agent. She is always at the 
same old stand where she has been for centuries, preaching 
the same gospel. Knowing that her faithful children will 
come to her, she leaves the three columns of the Saturday 
night paper to the passing strange titles of sermons and 
musical fixings, which vie with one another in the effort to 
attract the sinner to a dissertation on the Jewish mas- 
sacre accompanied by Gounod music, or to a denunciation 
of the wily Jesuit, made patriotic by the sentiment of "My 
Country, 'Tis of Thee." They tell us that advertising is 
life in this twentieth century, and while we know that the 
Church of Christ needs no splashing of ink to live, are 
we not allowed to think that more of the scattered sheep 
would be brought into the right fold if we went after them 
and compelled them to come in ? Too much conservatism 
is not a good thing. Street corner religion, combining ex- 
hortations with brass band accompaniment, has to many a 



THE JESUATES 21 

horrifying sense of innovation, and is assumed to be an 
emanation of fanaticism, or religions dementia, yet it is 
not so necessarily, unless one wishes to call fanatics many 
of the holy souls whom Mother Church has raised to her 
altars. 

The Salvation Army idea is not a special acquisition of 
the nineteenth century and General Booth. In the Middle 
Ages the idea of the army for attracting listeners and win- 
ning souls to Christ was utilized by the Church in the 
Order of the Jesuates. It is a far cry from the slums of 
the English or American city of to-day to the poetical 
Tuscany of the fourteenth century. To read the history 
of the Jesuates and the life of their founder, the Blessed 
John Colombini, is like a romance of chivalrous days; a 
romance it is of those old poetic days, for this army of the 
past is quite forgotten save for its memory in ponderous 
tomes. Yet it should not be forgotten, for the life of 
Colombini and his companions is an inspiration, an in- 
centive to us to accomplish what they did in Siena. 

Old Siena, how poetically has a gifted writer de- 
scribed it ! 

" Walls and towers that flush rose red at dawn and sun- 
set above a sea of vivid green, flecked with silver gray — a 
craggy island in a billowy ocean; brown roofs that climb 
in broken tiers, a sheer hillside crowned with a high 
plumed aigrette of white and black and gold, narrow sinu- 
ous streets flanked with palaces which Dante may have 
seen." 

Such is Siena the old. Such it was in the glorious four- 
teenth century. This was the outer appearance that would 
catch the eye of the poet, but within how like the modern 
city, with its varied life, its passions, its aim at the beau- 
tiful in art and poetry, and the unsated hunger for wealth 
and luxury and pleasure. It was here, in 1304, that Gio- 
vanni Colombini was born of virtuous parents, of the fa- 
mous Strozza Vacchae family, which for the past century 



22 GREAT PENITENTS 

had been known by the more familiar name of Colombini. 
It is not surprising to find him in his early youth engaging 
in a mercantile career. That was the passion of the 
Sienese. In the preceding century they were known as 
the nation of shopkeepers, oftentimes engaged in the then 
disputed traffic in money. Even the heads of the noblest 
and proudest houses did not consider it unseemly to be in 
business, which explains the readiness with which young 
Colombini became a merchant. Siena occupied the fore- 
most position in the financial world, due principally to 
the fact that its bankers had the patronage and business of 
the Holy See, and on the strength of that they had bank- 
ing houses in the great cities of France and England. A 
business career then was the high road to honors. 

Colombini entered the wool business, a lucrative one, for 
the Sienese had a heavy trade in Flemish cloth. Strictly 
attentive to business, he was able soon to open counting 
houses in other cities. We can picture to ourselves the 
young merchant of the day, proud of his good family, pol- 
ished to a fault, loving money and having it in abundance, 
acquainted with all Christendom, patronizing the arts with 
a chivalry which was a certain inheritance. It was Siena's 
period of glory and prosperity, and on this account the 
arts, being encouraged, were in a flourishing condition. 
Yet in the midst of it all there was a prodigality of luxury 
which became a folly, so much so that (1262) the State 
was invoked to check the extravagance of the women. 
Thereupon was decreed by law the length of a woman's 
train, the amount of gold and silver ornaments, and such 
like. But if the women had the proverbial failing of 
vanity the men were addicted to the greater fault of av- 
arice. The accumulation of wealth and its wanton use 
in luxury, the continual pursuit of pleasure, and the con- 
sequent oppression of the poor, were the characteristics 
of those years. 

Undoubtedly, Colombini was not a whit different from 



THE JESUATES 23 

the nobles of his acquaintance. He was of the earth 
earthy — egotistical, proud, avaricious, considering it no 
dishonor to grind the poor unmercifully. His pride of 
life was intensified by the fact that he had belonged to the 
celebrated Nine, shortly before the Black Death and the 
consequent overthrow of the existing government, and that 
his rule was one of the most brilliant eras of the Republic 
in its great rivalry with Florence. That he had a power- 
ful will and astounding activity is evident in his later life 
as well as in the events which led up to his conversion. 

He had little thought of marriage till he was more than 
forty, believing no doubt that he had little time to concern 
himself about domestic affairs. Tears before, however, a 
wife had been selected for him in the person of the beau- 
tiful Biagia, daughter of the noble Cerretani family. The 
interests of the two families were common. The union 
was most desirable to the parents, and so in 1343, Giovanni 
became a benedict. It was a happv union of which were 
born a son and daughter who died in early life, the daugh- 
ter as a young novice. So they lived happily for twelve 
years till the eventful midsummer day in 1355. On that 
day Colombini was in bad spirits. Business cares occu- 
pied his mind and he scarcely spared the time to come 
home to dine. To increase his ill humor the dinner was 
late. He fretted and fumed, and loaded everybody with 
reproaches — especially his wife for presuming to keep him 
waiting. To make matters worse Biagia told him to have 
patience, and, as the crowning bit of impertinence, she 
took from the table a volume of the Lives of the Saints and 
gave it to him with the suggestion that he should read it 
till the dinner was served. That was more than he could 
bear, and in disgust he threw it into the middle of the 
room, while Biagia fled in fear of her husband's anger. 

Left alone, Colombini had the grace to be ashamed of 
himself. Regretting the manner in which he had abused 
the holy book, he picked it up. Chancing to open it at the 



24 GEEAT PENITENTS 

life of St. Mary of Egypt, something in it held his atten- 
tion, and he sat down to read it. It was the old story of 
crime and atonement. 

Colombini forgot that he was hungry. Nobody dared 
disturb him and he read till morning. The narrative 
plucked at his heart strings. It opened his eyes to the 
condition of his own soul, taught him that there are things 
more important than laying up treasures on earth. The 
work was done. It was the "tolle, lege/' repeated once 
again. Another soul had turned into the narrow lane that 
leads to saintship. Here was one more sign of the favor 
which Heaven showered down upon Tuscany, a province 
beyond all others in the founders of Orders, which pro- 
duced such saints as St. Francis of Assisi, St. Bernar- 
dine of Siena, and the great St. Catherine. 

Colombini's conversion was not the pietistic sentiment 
that prevails a moment and is gone. He had put his hand 
to the plow, and his nature was too noble to think of look- 
ing back. To atone for past forgetfulness he assumed a 
practical penance. He took account of stock and declared 
himself ready to return whatever he might have acquired 
unjustly. Pie gave great alms, spent much time in visit- 
ing churches, the poor, the sick, took the vow of chastity 
together with his wife, and from the day of his conversion 
used for his short sleep a simple plank. The beautiful 
garments of the wealthy merchant were cast off, and, the 
butt of jokes from his friends, for his apparently insane 
conduct, he walked the streets of Siena as a poor man. 
He was not long a solitary figure. The grace of God 
worked through his example. Francesco Vincenti, of an 
aristocratic and wealthy Sienese family, was the first con- 
vert to the peculiar ways of his friend Colombini. It was 
a hard struggle, however, before the tall and handsome 
Vincenti capitulated to the exhortations of his short and 
delicate adviser. 

The reproaches of friends increased. Such an unheard- 



THE JESUATES 25 

of thing for two wealthy men with all the pleasures of the 
world at their command to waste their fortune, dishonor 
their families by their strange behavior, and think and talk 
only of the poor, the Holy Name, and the salvation of 
souls ! 

There is a beautiful story about the neophyte days of 
the holy man, which shows better than all else what great 
love for the poor consumed the heart of one who erstwhile 
had despised and ground them. One day the two friends 
met with a leper at the door of the church. The unfortu- 
nate was a repulsive sight to the world, but to these men 
he was an image of the Master, "despised and the most 
abject of men." Home to Colombini's house they brought 
him immediately, washed and bound his sores and put him 
to bed, and, as a final penance to strengthen his soul still 
more, Colombini drank of the water wherein the leper had 
been washed. They then returned to the church, leaving 
behind them an indignant woman. Biagia had not ad- 
vanced in sanctity as rapidly as her husband, and it is no 
surprise to find her incapable of looking on with equanim- 
ity while her beautiful home was used as a hospital for the 
poor, and her best bed and daintiest linens taken for the 
comfort of despised lepers. But the indignation soon 
passed away. "How be a Christian," she asked herself, 
"if one did not love the poor ?" And so she went to comfort 
her guest. As she approached the room there came a per- 
fume thence sweeter than the richest flowers. Soon Col- 
ombini returned to continue his kind offices to the beggar, 
and lo, the bed was empty, the leper had fled ! The aston- 
ished man fell on his knees. His heart told him who the 
visitant was, and as he prayed in humility and thanksgiv- 
ing there appeared to him in a radiant brightness the 
Divine Leper, "struck by God and afflicted." 

This miracle was followed by a greater abandonment of 
self on the part of the two men. After having provided 
for those who depended on them they gave away all their 



26 GEE AT PENITENTS 

fortune in order to be more like the Master, and with bare 
head and feet they begged their bread like the lowliest of 
mortals. "Lady Poverty" had captured other devoted 
suitors, like to her greatest knight, St. Francis of Assisi. 
Many have remarked the great similarity between him 
and Colombini — both poets and musicians, both preachers 
of the love of God, and both martyrs to poverty. 

The Salvation Army methods, as any attempts destined 
to obtain religious notoriety are now called, had already 
begun. The man who had been so proud, the nobleman, 
the ruler of Siena, determined to humiliate himself. It is 
easier to be poor than to sacrifice one's pride, but Colom- 
bini was equal to the task. He acted as servant to the 
nobles who had been his equals in the old days, and to 
humiliate himself the more he rode an ass through the 
streets where once he had held his head as high as a king. 
Eccentric as such actions seemed to his compatriots, there 
was in the conduct of the man a deeper purpose than self- 
abasement. The sight of a man who had voluntarily re- 
nounced wealth and station was well calculated to arrest 
the attention of passers-by, and he, thirsting for souls as 
once he had thirsted for money, profited by the furore his 
presence occasioned, in striving to lead others to the things 
of God. Simple layman though he was, the love of God 
made him an eloquent evangelist. Standing on posts, or 
on the steps of some Sienese palace, he held his hearers 
entranced as he spoke so earnestly of sin, of eternal punish- 
ment and especially of love of God. Street corner preach- 
ing was not such a rarity in those ages of faith, peculiar as 
it seemed when the modern Salvation Army revived it. It 
was common enough in those days to hear the word of God 
preached out under the blue sky in the public square, in 
the fields, in the narrow streets, in the highways and by- 
ways, wherever a soul was to be saved. So in Protestant 
England in the eighteenth century had Wesley and White- 
field gone out among the people, preaching Christ in the 



THE JESUATES 27 

fields, in the factories, in the mining districts, and with 
such effect that hardened men sobbed like children. 

Colombini's preaching, united to his good example, was 
most persuasive. In a few months he had the happiness 
of beholding a thousand converted to a better life, many 
of them abandoning the world entirely in order to surren- 
der themselves wholly to God. It was from these that this 
spiritual general got the first recruits for his army which 
was called then "The Poor of Christ." Soon the army 
numbered seventy, comprising many of the foremost citi- 
zens of Siena, an astounding thing to the populace of that 
gay place. It is still more astounding when we read of 
the manner in which prospective vocations were tried. 
Oftentimes the new disciple was compelled to ride through 
the streets seated on an ass, with his face towards the tail, 
and again bound as a criminal while his companions ex- 
horted the passers-by to pray for the miserable sinner. 

To men who had been full of the pride of life, who 
lived in luxury and knew no opposition to their will, such 
proceedings were far from being the tomfoolery which 
men of to-day consider them, but evidenced in a striking 
manner the fact that the love of God can induce men to be 
"fools" for Christ's sake. "Have you the courage to let 
yourself be spit upon in the face and not say a word?" 
asked Lacordaire of the young pianist Hermann, who had 
consulted him about his vocation. "Yes," he replied with- 
out a tremor. "Then go," said the great Dominican, "and 
be a monk." 

The brass band and tambourine element was not de- 
spised by the army. Colombini's powerful voice, we are 
told, was like a clarion of gold. Loving music passion- 
ately, as one of the celestial pleasures, and comforting his 
heart with it, he saw therein a means to stir up the souls 
of his followers as the martial air strengthened the battling 
soldier. In mighty chorus they sang the hymns which he 
himself composed. It was the battle hymn of an army 



28 GEE AT PENITENTS 

making war upon the powers of darkness. Occasionally 
there was one of the disciples like Boccio who sang the 
hymn to the accompaniment of the viol. Attract the 
crowd was Colombini's motto, and then keep them by the 
word of God. 

Apparently the army had attracted too many recruits. 
The people of Siena saw fathers, sons and friends seduced 
from the world by this new enchanter. Therefore they 
murmured long and bitterly against him, and as a result 
of their enmity Colombini and Vincenti were banished 
from the city and condemned to perpetual exile. But they 
did not go alone. Twenty-five companions, tried and true, 
voluntarily suffered the punishment with them. Heaven, 
however, did not permit its valiant soldiers to be treated 
thus with impunity. A storm and pestilence swept over 
the city, striking terror everywhere, and the afflicted popu- 
lace, ascribing such a visitation to their unjust treatment of 
the army, immediately despatched messengers to entreat 
Colombini to come back. But he would not. In this en- 
forced exile he saw the finger of God pointing to other 
cities where he could spread the good work of converting 
souls, and thither he led his willing army. Triumphant 
band it was, singing hymns as it marched along, converting 
sinners and gaining new recruits for the ranks ! 

It is not a fancy that leads us to refer to Colombini and 
his disciples as an army, for the army idea was one of his 
own. "Chevaliers of Christ," he calls them, and above all 
"The Brigade." "Do you recall," he writes to the abbess 
of Santa Bonda, "that the way of combats and battles has 
been followed by our Captain, Christ ?" That is the figure 
he uses so often in his letters, the true Salvation Army of 
Christ. It was likewise a favorite one with St. Ignatius, 
who considered Christ as the King, the Leader of an army, 
the "Captain-General." Whether the founder of the 
Jesuits was indebted to the founder of the Jesuates for 



THE JESUATES 29 

this idea, or borrowed it from his former knightly career 
in the world, it is hard to say ; perhaps it was due to both. 
At any rate we are told that one of Ignatius' favorite 
books was the life of Colombini. 

It is interesting to follow the army in its campaign over 
the fair land of Italy, its only weapons the love of God, 
and the Holy Name of Jesus. It was on this tour that they 
received their distinctive name of Jesuates. Pope Urban V 
had left Avignon to return to Rome, in 1367. None was 
more pleased at this than the Poor Soldiers, and, in order 
to show their joy and their loyalty to their Holy Father, 
sixty-six of them repaired to Corneto, where the Papal 
party was to land. As they marched along, singing as 
usual, the children on the street cried out, "Look! look! 
here are the Jesuates !" It was the most fitting name for 
men whose entire will was to bring honor to the sweet name 
of the Saviour. It was a fruitful journey in many ways. 
The Pope was struck by the simple faith of the men, inter- 
ested himself deeply in their work, approved the Order, 
even selecting the garb they should wear, and, in spite of 
the opposition manifested towards them on many sides, 
defended them and allowed them to be called "The Pope's 
Poor." 

Colombini's cup of joy was full. Back to Siena he 
started, but the old body, now sixty-three, was worn out by 
its labors. Alive he did not return, but there, almost at 
the gate of his beloved city, surrounded by his sorrowing 
companions, he breathed his last. As the body was brought 
into the mourning city, who more fitting to be the first to 
touch it than the faithful wife Biagia, to whose sacrifices 
and devotion much of his success was due ? 

But if Colombini died, his army endured for three cen- 
turies. It extended over Tuscany and the neighboring 
country, founded many convents, as did the similar Order 
of women which he may claim the honor of establishing, 



30 GEEAT PENITENTS 

since it was through his prayers and exhortations that his 
rich cousin Catherine left the world and founded the 
Jesuate sisterhood. 

One would have an incomplete idea of the Jesuates if 
he imagined them only as a Salvation Army, singing 
hymns and exhorting to holiness of life. Beautiful as this 
work is, it was supplemented by another. The sick were 
cared for, the dead buried, and remedies were made and 
supplied to the poor who could not get them elsewhere. 
The Jesuates were certainly all things to all men. Hard 
labor, too, was their portion, with the discipline morning 
and evening, and the recitation of one hundred and sixty- 
five Paters and Aves daily, together with the Office of the 
Blessed Virgin, for it was not until 1606 that they were 
admitted to the priesthood. In some places distilleries 
were established, the proceeds of which went to give succor 
to the poor. As time went on, however, the Order ceased 
to remember the simplicity of its founder. It became too 
wealthy, and that was its undoing, for it is said the Vene- 
tian Republic demanded its suppression in order to obtain 
its wealth to carry on a war against the Turks. How- 
ever it may be, it w r as Clement IX, who, in 1668, 
three hundred years after the death of Colombini, sup- 
pressed the Order for reasons which reflect naught upon 
the holy men who had done such loyal service to the cause 
of Christ. 

So ended the Jesuate Army. It is now scarcely more 
than a name, its history embalmed in ponderous tomes 
where one seldom digs, and yet as we conjure up those 
long forgotten forms we see them live and breathe again, 
as men of to-day fighting the battles of the King, doing all, 
daring all ; and in that vision of the olden days we learn 
to understand somewhat the grandeur of the great Captain 
Who could make of men such a noble army. 



THE GAMBLES— ST. OAMILLUS DE LELLIS 

PENITENCE and gloom are not necessarily syn- 
onymous. It would be a mistake to think of the 
great exemplars of sorrow for sin as useless mourn- 
ers kneeling in the corner, beating their breasts, with ear 
for nothing but their own lamentations. The science of the 
penitential life is the determination to atone. Into that 
enters personal mortification, suffering, self-affliction. The 
body has sinned ; it must pay the penalty. It must suffer 
not only for the evil it has done, but it must be subjected 
against the possibility of the soul being again dominated 
by it. Penance looks not only to the past; it looks to 
the future as well. It wants to make up, to redeem the 
time. 

Hence it is no surprising thing to find your penitent 
a man of superabundant activity; not a mere regretter of 
the past, but a maker-up of lost time. He has wasted his 
life ; the days to the end are all too short for him to have 
something in his hands when he comes before God to give 
an account of his stewardship. So he works incessantly. 
Constant tears, constant prayers and, too, constant charity. 
Alms, to redeem one's sins. Alms of kindness, generosity 
to God and neighbor. How plain all that is in the life of 
St. Peter. Lovingly we recall the old tradition that his 
sin was forever before him; his eyes were continually 
flooding with their penitential tears, so that furrows were 
worn into the old cheeks. But who was more active in 
charity, in the service of the flock committed to him than 
the first great white shepherd of Christendom? 

It is this penitential activity that charms in the life of 

31 



32 GEEAT PENITENTS 

St Camillus de Lellis. The grace of God opened his 
eyes one day. He saw himself as others saw him, a good 
for nothing, rowdyish, swaggering, lustful soldier. A 
foolish life surely. But the realization of that fact and 
the determination to make up for the squandered years, 
gambled away in more senses than one, reached its final 
fruition in the establishment of one of the most beneficial 
Orders to suffering humanity that the world has ever seen. 
The tears of Camillus for his years of sin were rivers of 
mercy to the afflicted. 

Camillus was a contemporary of Shakespeare. He was 
a lad of fourteen when the great poet was born. They 
never knew of the existence of each other, but I like to 
think that when the poet was penning the immortal lines 
as to the quality of mercy the converted gambler and 
swashbuckler was giving a sublime example of the exercise 
of mercy in his tender care of the sick of Rome. 

It was in 1550, then, that Camillus de Lellis was born 
at Bacchianico, in Abruzzo, in the kingdom of Naples, 
then under the domination of the Spaniards. His father, 
Giovanni de Lellis, belonged to a race of soldiers. Mili- 
tarism was in the blood. But it was rather poor, thin 
blood by the time it had reached Giovanni. His was 
hardly the soldierness of patriotism. He was a soldier of 
fortune. He fought wherever he was hired to fight, irre- 
spective of the cause, and had no scruples even about hir- 
ing himself out to the Turks, the avowed enemies of Chris- 
tianity. As to his ability there can be no question, for we 
find him acting as an officer both in the Neapolitan and 
later in the French army. 

But the life of a soldier of fortune was hardly conducive 
to morality, and Giovanni did not scruple at taking his 
pleasures where he found them. He was dissolute, w T ith 
all the vices of the soldier life of his time. Indeed, those 
Renaissance days were nothing to be proud of from the 
point of view of morality. Yet no doubt there was a 



ST. CAMILLUS DE LELLIS 33 

time when he too was something worth while, otherwise one 
cannot imagine that fine woman, Camilla Compellia, mar- 
rying him. But the noble Roman girl soon realized that her 
marriage had been a mistake. The soldierly husband had 
nothing noble about him but his name. Her happy days, 
if happy they could be called, were when he was away 
from home on some fighting expedition. Her first baby 
had died, and she had not been sorry, for there was ever 
the fear in her heart that a child of such a father must 
be worthless. 

So passed the years. Camilla had lived a life of sor- 
row, a neglected wife. Her only hope was for the peace 
of the grave. Little she guessed that in her old days God 
was to use her for a great work in His kingdom. She 
was old and gray, nearly sixty years of age, and she was 
about to bring forth another child. The biographers of 
her son tell us that she was alarmed at the prospect. An- 
other child, perhaps to inherit the father's vices and thus 
be a reproach instead of a blessing. Besides she was old, 
she must die before the child would be reared. What 
chance would any child have, being left to the care of 
Giovanni de Lellis ? 

A few days before the birth of Camillus there came a 
dream to alarm her. It seemed to her that she saw a child, 
her child, with a red cross stamped on his breast, and after 
this child came many others following him, all wearing the 
same sign. Such a dream would have been a consolation 
to her had she read it aright, but it only increased her 
melancholy. Might it not be the threat of disaster, the 
child signed with a cross of blood. 

The early years of young Camillus were such as to in- 
crease her fears that God had punished her in sending this 
son. Many a tear he made her shed. Many an act of 
penance she did, many a prayer she said that the sins of 
the father might not be visited on the son. But all 
seemed hopeless. The boy Camillus was a chip of the 



34 GEEAT PENITENTS 

old block. There was nothing winning about him. He 
was the product of the camp. It was useless for the quiet, 
gentle mother to seek to train him. He would have no 
books, no education. His soldierly father was his ideal, 
not his retiring mother. Even in those days he longed to 
be a soldier, and all that education did for him was to 
teach him to read and write. The poor mother did her 
best, but her conviction must have been, when she came to 
die, that she had failed. Little she guessed that one day 
this son who now caused her so much grief would be raised 
to the altar of God. She was denied that consolation. 
Camillus was twelve years old when the poor old mother 
was laid to rest. No doubt he grieved ; surely he had rea- 
son. But the grief of youth is short and anyway there 
was one more restraint taken from the life of the lad who 
burned to be a man and a soldier. One can fancy him 
even then begging his father to take him with him on the 
next campaign but, worthless though he was, Giovanni had 
some little regard for the welfare of the boy. He sent 
him to school, glad no doubt to get him off his hands. But 
the school days accomplished little. Camillus learned 
nothing but vice, the propensity to which he had inherited 
from his father. 

It was a happy day for Camillus when he left behind 
him the prison walls of school and strode off at last by the 
side of his father to be his companion and a soldier of for- 
tune. 

Like father, like son. Giovanni de Lellis hardly knew 
what were the duties, the obligations of a father. He had 
none of the parental instinct, or he would have been the 
last one on earth to permit the lad to become a soldier. 
But he did not care. Camillus was to him only a boon 
companion. The father had walked the way of vice ; why 
not the son ? 

But Camillus needed not the example of his father. He 
was an apt pupil in the ways of the world. He became 



ST. CAM ILL US DE LELLIS 35 

like his companions, a loose liver, to whom the only manli- 
ness was sin. The young soldier had little choice in sins, 
but if there was one passion more than any other that held 
him captive it was gambling. The lazy life of the soldier 
of fortune had induced that. It gained possession of 
him, body and soul. It became a second nature. He was 
powerless to resist it. Sometimes he even lost the clothes 
off his back, but that did not change him. There was al- 
ways the chance to win back what he had lost, the old 
gambler's chance. 

The destitution to which the son was so often reduced 
must have at times disturbed the conscience of the father 
who had been the teacher and abettor of the son's vices. 
He was now getting to be an old man, with nothing but a 
wasted life and a son who seemed destined to outstrip him 
in vice, difficult as that might be. 

And then came the end. The old soldier was struck 
with his last illness, and at the same time Camillus was 
slightly attacked. I like to fancy that the son had con- 
tracted his sickness while caring for his father, a beginning 
of the life work which was to cover his name with glory. 

The desire of the old soldier was to go home to die. 
Home for the end, to be laid by the side of the wife to 
whom he had been so faithless. But he never reached 
home. They recovered sufficiently to begin the journey 
home, but Camillus saw that his father would never reach 
there alive. He was dying. The son brought him to the 
house of a friend, and there Giovanni de Lellis fought his 
last fight — against death. !so longer the brave soldier, 
no longer the swashbuckler that could laugh at death. He 
was vanquished in body, but happily unvanquished in soul. 
He who had so long forgotten God was permitted to come 
back to Him at the end. The good friend brought the 
priest to him, and the dying man made his peace with 
God, and surrendered to the Cross. They buried him 
there. 



36 GREAT PENITENTS 

The death of his father was the beginning of the change 
in young Camillus. He had loved his father, had admired 
his soldierly qualities, had been his companion for years. 
And now he was no more. But it was grief that had im- 
pressed his heart the most. He had seen a great thing. 
He had seen this brave man, his father, this soldier who 
had been afraid of nothing, now vanquished. He knew 
how evil the old soldier's life had been ; and he had seen 
the tears of his repentance. It was all in vain then — this 
service of the world. The day comes when passion is pow- 
erless. He saw the emptiness of a life of sin. It was 
then, very likely, he made his vow to become a Franciscan. 

So it was a changed youth that left his father's grave, 
and still weak from illness and sorrow resumed the journey 
home. Not only was he weak from his recent sickness, 
but a wound in his leg was beginning to bother him. 
It was to bother him to his dying day. He had laughed 
at it as a mere scratch, but now it was becoming in- 
fected. Crushed in soul and body he trudged along, 
but thinking not so much of his physical as of his 
moral condition. He was sicker in soul than in body. 
His father had repented, why not he ? If it was a desir- 
able thing to repent at the end of life, why not in the flush 
of youth? And moreover might it not be that life was 
near its end for him even in his youth ? 

Camillus could go no farther. He sat down to rest, 
and to think, think, think, of the death of his father, God 
was tugging at his heart; and seeing two Franciscans 
passing in deep recollection, he took it as a sign that God 
had inspired him to make the vow to become a Franciscan. 
His mind was made up at once. He would do this thing, 
do it while in the first fervor of what he believed to be 
his conversion. An uncle! of his, Era Paolo Lauretana, 
was a Franciscan, a man of saintly life and of certain 
influence in his Order. Why not go to him for advice ? 
And at once he went off to beg the good Father to use his 



ST. CAMILLUS DE LELLIS 37 

influence in getting him into the Order. But the uncle was 
first of all the priest, and then the relative. He was not 
over impressed with his young soldier-nephew. He knew 
the blood of de Lellis, and his discerning eye could not see 
any sign that the conversion of Camillus was to be a lasting 
one. So without giving a decided refusal, he kept the 
youth for a while under observation. The trial did not 
win him over. He could discover no sign of a vocation, 
and moreover Camillus was far from being in the state 
of health required for one who would live the hard life 
of a poor Franciscan. He pleaded his case, but the old 
uncle was hard as a rock. At last he sent him about his 
business. 

To say that Camillus was angry is to put it mildly. It 
is easy to imagine him using pretty strong language in 
talking about this uncle of his who did not understand a 
fellow. Camillus was incensed. Why try to be good, no 
doubt he asked, when your own won't take you seriously ? 
Off he went in a huff, decided that there was no use in 
trying to reform. He wouldn't try to be a religious any 
more. He had offered himself, and had been refused. 
The sin be upon his uncle's head. And right away, very 
likely, Camillus went looking for a game of cards. No 
sense in being good ; we can hear the old companions whom 
he rejoined now laughing at the soldier who wanted to 
be pious. 

Camillus was in a sorry fix. He wanted to be a Fran- 
ciscan, and the Franciscans would have nothing to do with 
him. He must keep on soldiering. But again who wanted 
a soldier with a crippled leg? For the supposed slight 
scratch had now become a serious running sore. In vain 
he sought remedies to heal it and fix him up to resume his 
old avocation* and all the time he was so mortified at his 
appearance, a soldier limping along from a little scratch — 
not a glorious scar received in battle — that he hid himself 
as much as he could, sneaking from one town to another. 



38 GEEAT PENITENTS 

At length fate, or rather the grace of God, brought him 
to Rome, and he came to the hospital of St. Giacomo to 
put himself under the care of the surgeons. In return for 
the medical treatment, he offered his services as a servant 
in the hospital. A fine big strapping servant, no doubt the 
hospital authorities were glad to get him. But the trouble 
was he had not come alone; he brought a pack of cards 
with him, and to while away the time he had initiated the 
other servants into the attractive art of gambling. Soon 
all work was neglected for the fascinating cards. Search 
was made for the chief culprit who had destroyed the 
discipline of the hospital, and lo, under the pillow of the 
big lanky young soldier a pack of cards was found. Need- 
less to say he was dismissed at once, even though his sore 
was not entirely healed. What if it wasn't? They were 
not going to permit him to disrupt the entire hospital. 

A pretty worthless customer, indeed, this limping soldier 
with his feet on the threshold of sanctity. In desperation 
he tried to hide his infirmity as much as possible and 
entered the army again, this time as a soldier of fortune 
in the Venetian army. 

It was the old, old story. The good resolutions were 
forgotten ; the young soldier-that- would-be-a-monk was dis- 
couraged and he threw himself into the thick of every 
fight, not caring if he were killed. He became as he was 
before, a roustabout, a sinner. Life held nothing for him. 
Yet often as he lay ill, seemingly unto death, he would 
shudder at his sins and promise to begin a new life. But 
outside dealing the cards the easiest thing Camillus did 
was to make vows. 

He was a veritable tramp in those days, and with him 
there went a soldier chum, Tiberio, whom he greatly loved, 
both of them half clothed, half fed. One day when they 
were begging at the door of a church they were accosted 
by a rich noble of the place. He was at that time paying 
for the erecting of a building for the Capuchins. There 



ST. CAMILLUS DE L ELL IS 39 

may have been something in the attitude of Camillus that 
impressed him, or again it may merely be that the noble- 
man was a shrewd business man who did not believe in 
giving charity to vagabonds. His alms was to ask the 
beggars if they wanted a job. Camillus replied at once 
that he did, but before giving a definite decision went to 
ask the advice of his chum who had very likely gone on as 
soon as he heard work mentioned. Camillus would decide 
nothing without the advice of Tiberio. And Tiberio 
scorned the idea of menial labor for noble soldiers like 
them. What! give up the free life of the road for such 
lowly work ? Why, Camillus must be a fool to think of it, 
and he the son of a nobleman. The easily led Camillus 
thought the same himself as long as Tiberio thought so, 
and off he went with his companion to let the building go 
up of itself for all of him. 

As Camillus went on, however, his conscience began to 
trouble him. He had vainly striven to quiet it since that 
day when at the death of his father he had seen the wisdom 
and the beauty of repentance. Impulsive as usual, he 
turned about and set off for the man — it was back twelve 
miles — who had offered him a job, while Tiberio, ridicul- 
ing him, went on his own tramping way never knowing 
that this tramp chum of his had just turned into the road 
of sanctity. But he soon missed the company of Camillus. 
Back he turned, too, to the Capuchin monastery and asked 
for a job. He got it. And thus they met again, Tiberio 
covered with whitewash and Camillus driving the ass that 
carried the building supplies. It was too much for Tiberio, 
and after a few days of this menial employment and after 
vainly trying to win over Camillus to his way of regarding 
work, he left for green fields again, thinking that his old 
chum was a poor kind of fool. 

The soldier spirit of Camillus never appeared to better 
advantage than in these days when he was winning the 
battle over himself. It is true, he had little notion of 



40 GREAT PENITENTS 

spiritual betterment, for he did not stick to his work from 
a spiritual motive. The old soldier instinct was still strong 
in him. He still wanted to be the active soldier. He 
wanted to redeem his good name, he wanted to show the 
world that there was something in him, and he regarded 
the present work, humble as it was, as the means to make 
enough money to rehabilitate himself, get himself new 
clothes, new equipment. He was truly a sorry sight, 
raggedy, with no care of his personal appearance, so that 
even the children used to congregate about the place where 
he worked in order to have some fun with him. He did 
not see the joke of it all; he was silent, almost morose, and 
made no friends among his fellow laborers. 

It may be that the friars saw the real man in this queer 
looking youth driving the ass. Anyway, they became inter- 
ested in him and trusted him, sending him occasionally 
on an errand which showed their confidence in him. One 
day they sent him to a neighboring monastery. It was 
rather a long journey and Camillus was not able to get 
home that night, so they put him up at the monastery. 
The Father Guardian felt himself attracted to the youth 
and engaged in conversation with him, calling attention to 
an old scar on the wrist of the young soldier and asking 
him about it. Something in the kind soul of the friar won 
Camillus. He saw in him a friend, and — perhaps the 
first one in whom he felt he could confide — he told the 
whole story of his short yet checkered life, short in years 
but long in sin and misery. It was not an easy task for 
him to bare his soul, and he blushed with shame at the 
recital of his evil deeds, even while he scarcely knew why 
he was recounting them to this stranger. But he had 
found a sympathetic listener. There was no reproach from 
the good friar — in this he was very different from Uncle 
Paolo who had seen nothing good in his nephew — he gave 
him sympathy, kindness. 

All the night long Camillus stayed awake. He paced 



ST. CAMILLUS DE LELLIS 41 

the floor or stood looking out the window, the friar's words 
of advice, of warning, ringing in his ears. Again he 
heard the call to repentance. He could hardly wait for 
the morning to return home, determined to seek the will 
of God in earnest and to do it. 

As Camillus rode along, meditating on the words of the 
friar, suddenly he seemed to hear a voice speaking to him. 
It halted him ; he knew it was from God. He threw him- 
self from his horse and knelt in the dust of the road like 
another Paul, begging God to make known to him His 
will. For a long time he remained there thinking of his 
past. He saw the wickedness of his misspent life. His 
sins frightened him. He beat his breast with sorrow, and 
moaned over and over again his fervent, tearful act of 
contrition, calling on God to show him mercy ; and then as 
if calling him to the service of God he heard the sound of 
the church bells ringing. It was the Feast of the Purifica- 
tion. The grace of God had entered the young man's heart. 
The way of penance towards which his steps had been so 
many times directed was entered upon at last. He would 
tread it willingly to the end. He was then twenty-five 
years of age. 

Speedily Camillus returned to the monastery where he 
was working and told the Father Guardian all that had 
happened. The friar believed him and assured him that 
everything would be done to enable him to become a Capu- 
chin. It was enough for Camillus, and immediately he 
began a life of sincere penance, a life of austerity. The 
friar was as good as his word. He succeeded in making 
arrangements for Camillus to enter the novitiate at Trivi- 
ento and thither he repaired with a great joy of spirit. 
There could be no turning back now. Camillus had seen 
the light. He must efface himself, and this he did so well 
in the first days of the novitiate that his fellow novices 
called him the "humble brother." 

But the davs of trial were not 2;one. The old sore, 



42 GEEAT PENITENTS 

that miserable, inglorious scratch, broke out again, and 
the novice, zealous as he was, was dismissed, heartbroken, 
yet not discouraged, for the friars had promised him that 
if he were cured they would take him back. He would 
be cured then! So off he started for the hospital of St. 
Giacomo w T here the telltale pack of cards had been found 
under his pillow. Again he was given a job as a servant. 
But what a change in him ! No longer the lazy, gambling 
soldier that had set the whole hospital by the ears, he was 
now a slave to duty. He devoted himself to the care of 
the sick with such kindness, such unction even, that the 
other attendants wondered if this could be the same man 
who had been ejected a short time before. 

In the Rome of that time the greatest personage was the 
humble Philip Neri. The saintly man, through his un- 
tiring labors in the confessional, had changed the face of 
the city, so long suffering from the evil days of the pagan 
Renaissance. To him Camillus, as well as everybody else 
in Rome, came to confession. But great confessor that 
Philip was he had no end of trouble with this new peni- 
tent of his. Things went along very nicely until the old 
sore began to heal. And then nothing would do Camillus 
but that he must go back to the Capuchins, since he felt 
that he was obliged in conscience to do so. Philip felt that 
the youth had no vocation for the Capuchins and sought 
to deter him from going back, assuring him that if he did 
have his own stubborn way and go back the sore would 
break out again. But the headstrong soldier persisted. 
Back he went to his old friends, but inside four months 
he was out again, and this time for good, with a written 
document to show that he was ineligible ever to enter the 
Order on account of an incurable wound. Nothing daunted, 
he went to another house of Capuchins and sought admit- 
tance, but the friars would not take him. 

Surely Camillus was having a hard time finding his 
vocation. God was getting things ready for his own good 



ST. CAMILLUS DE LELLIS 43 

time. Philip JSTeri laughed good naturedly at the crest- 
fallen ex-novice when he next met him. "God bless you, 
Camillus," he cried out, "did I not tell you to give up 
the thought of being a Capuchin ?" Poor enough com- 
fort to Camillus, however. 

Well, since he could not be a monk there was nothing 
for him to do but go back to his work at the hospital. So 
back he went and was given his old position of superin- 
tendent of the wards. But even then he had no idea that 
here was his lifework. He still had it in his head that 
some day he would be a monk. Meantime, he was where 
God wanted him to be, for Camillus was needed in the 
hospital. 

The hospital of those days was not the institution it is 
today. It had many faults. The methods of caring for 
the sick had not reached the perfection of modern times. 
No one knew the faults better than Camillus, for in his 
early days as servant at the hospital he had committed 
many of the sins of negligence. He knew that the at- 
tendants often neglected their duties. And in order to 
catch them in this neglect and reprimand them against the 
further repetition of them he would hide himself between 
the beds. He saw that the patients often called in vain 
for assistance, that beds were unclean, patients uncared for, 
parched often with thirst with no one to give them a 
drink, sometimes left to die without the sacraments. So 
great was the carelessness that sometimes patients were 
buried alive ! 

Beholding these things now from the point of view of 
faith, Camillus saw the great need of reform. The sick 
must be cared for. They must not be left in incompetent 
hands. It w T as for him to get good men to devote them- 
selves out of the spirit of faith to the work of caring for 
the poor afflicted ones. He found the beginning of his 
work in the hospital. Among the attendants he found 
five men who had something of his same spirit of love for 



44 GREAT PENITENTS 

the sick, and who deplored as he did the lax condition of 
the hospital. To them he told his plans, indefinite as 
they then were, to obtain better care for the sick. These 
men all heartily agreed with him. The little group of 
reformers gathered in one of the rooms of the hospital 
and there before a shrine of Christ crucified, which they 
had made, they knelt, and prayed, and even scourged 
themselves. In this the moving spirit was, of course, 
Camillus. To him there was nothing new in the scourg- 
ing. Long before this, even in the first fervor of his con- 
version from sin, he had been accustomed to spend most 
of the night in prayer, whipping himself, and torturing his 
flesh with a girdle of tin and hair shirt. And added to 
these mortifications, he had half starved himself in his 
desire to do penance. 

And from that penance, that realization of his own un- 
worthiness, there came to Camillus the desire to help 
others. It was all planned in his mind. He and his com- 
panions at once put their charitable thoughts into execu- 
tion. They watched and tended the sick, especially the 
dying, exhorting them to pray, trying in every way pos- 
sible to help them to their sanctification. It was the prac- 
tice of the spiritual and the corporal works of mercy. But 
the methods of the little association, strange to say, were 
a novelty to the hospital authorities and some people never 
take kindly to novelties. What was good enough in the 
past is good enough for all time according to their way of 
thinking. Yet one must not be too hard on the authorities. 
The Christian world was suffering in those days from un- 
checked novelties. At any rate the meetings in the oratory 
were discontinued and Camillus was ordered to dismantle 
his beloved shrine. He could not understand the opposi- 
tion, so convinced was he that his mission to the sick had 
been given to him by God. Even when Philip Neri sided 
with the hospital authorities and advised Camillus to be 
obedient and to submit, he found himself up against the 



ST. C A MILL US DE L ELL IS 45 

stone wall of the stubborn convert. Camillus would sub- 
mit because he had to, but he kept his own opinion still. 
He even went so far as to change confessors believing that 
Philip did not understand him. 

Though all the world was against him and his pet project 
Camillus still felt that God wished him to establish an 
Order for the care of the sick. It might be presumption 
in some one else, but in one who had felt the very presence 
of God it could be nothing but an inspiration. It must 
be done. But how? Must he be a priest in order to 
fulfill the will of God ? Well, if that was so, he would 
become a priest, that w T as all. It seemed an impossibility, 
it was true, but God w r ould show the way if he wanted him 
to do that work. 

Camillus was then thirty-two years old. He had little 
or no education; he could read and write, that was all. 
What courage it required for him to face the long course 
of studies necessary before he would be admitted to sacred 
orders ! But w r hy let that daunt him if God was with 
him? So while still serving in the hospital wards he 
conned his new lessons, very elementary lessons at that. 
But so earnest was he that it w r as not long before he was 
able to enter the junior classes of one of the Jesuit colleges 
of Home. It is inspiring to think of the tall, ungainly 
man of thirty-two or more sitting on the benches side by 
side with the small lads w T ho could not resist the tempta- 
tion to make him the butt of their good-natured jokes. 

But what cared Camillus about discomforts, humilia- 
tion ? Zeal lent speed to his feet. Determination aided 
him in his studies, and at last with the help of a pious 
gentleman named Firmo Calmo who gave him enough 
money for his patrimony — the same man when he came to 
die gave all his wealth to the hospital — he was ordained 
priest at Pentecost in 1584, at the age of thirty-four, and 
had the wonderful privilege of offering up the Holy Sac- 
rifice of the Mass. It was an event beyond the wildest 



46 GEEAT PENITENTS 

dreams of the soldier. How happy poor Camilla would 
have been could she have foreseen that glorious day. Her 
son, for whom she had feared every ill, a priest of God ! 

Father Camillus had intended to remain at the hospital 
after his ordination, still serving God in what he believed 
to be his life's mission, the service of the sick, a service 
all the greater now that he was a priest. But he soon 
realized that his activities here must be limited. He still 
felt that God wanted greater things at his hand. He was 
at the time chaplain of a small church. He lived in a 
poor small room in the rear of the church — hardly fit 
accommodations for one who had visions of founding an 
Order. But there he made his home and with him Ber- 
nardino and Curzio, two poor ignorant men who had served 
with him in the hospital, the only ones left of that band 
of five lovers of the sick who used to kneel in the little 
hospital oratory before the crucifix. It was in this humble 
room, however, that the great Order of the Camilians was 
begun. The three men lost little time in planning. Theirs 
was a practical work, to serve the sick and dying. So im- 
mediately they began the rounds of the hospitals, Camillus 
exercising his priestly functions while old Bernardino and 
Curzio instructed the sick, advised them, comforted them 
and helped them to die well, besides giving them all the 
material comfort which they knew so well how to give. 
Wounds and sores were cared for, the most menial and 
repulsive tasks were performed with holy joy. The sick 
man was made king ; more, he was regarded even as Christ 
crucified. 

"Praised be God," the sick exclaimed, "these are His 
angels. Christ himself has come to His own." 

Soon the reputation of these few holy men spread 
throughout the city, and they were besieged with requests 
not only from the hospitals but also to visit and tend the 
sick in the private homes. It was heroic work, but crush- 
ing. Camillus and Curzio broke under the strain and 



ST. CAMILLUS DE LELLIS 47 

contracted an illness so serious that they had to be taken 
to the hospital themselves and put to bed for treatment. 
But their courage, their faith, was not lessened. No 
sooner were they able to stand on their feet again than 
they tottered back to the loved work of caring for the sick. 

It was about this time that the kindness of a good man 
enabled them to leave the poor room which, being in a 
malarial district, had caused the serious illness. A more 
fitting dwelling was obtained and Camillus, now with a 
home of his own, began to think of the foundation of his 
Congregation. He was one of the most persistent men 
that ever lived. There was still a good deal of the soldier 
blood left in him. The very persistence of the man won 
him helpful friends. Not only did he find a good pro- 
tector in the person of the charitable Cardinal Mondovi, 
but even the Holy Father, Sixtus V, took a personal in- 
terest in him and his work of kindness. At once he gave 
his approval to the proposed Congregation of Ministers of 
the Sick, and at the request of Camillus, who had never 
forgotten the story of his mother's dream of the red cross, 
the Pope permitted the members to be distinguished by 
this insignia. They wore a long black garment with a 
red cross on their breast. They were to live together with 
the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience and, added to 
these, a vow to serve the sick. Gradually the Congrega- 
tion attracted new members, priests and laymen, and soon 
at every hospital bed in Rome there was a wearer of the 
red cross tending the sick, facing death if need be in the 
heroic exercise of true Christian charity. 

It would take too long to review the annals of the Con- 
gregation. They are filled with beautiful stories about 
the work of these men of God. In the humblest cottages, 
in the fever-filled galleys, in whole districts where pesti- 
lence raged and men were dying like flies, there you would 
see the red cross. Shortly after the approval of the Con- 
gregation the members were put to a severe test. A plague 



r 48 GEEAT 'PENITENTS 

had broken out in one quarter of the city where the velvet 
weavers lived. Camillus and his companions were imme- 
diately in the thick of it. One gets a beautiful picture of 
the big lanky Camillus now worn to skin and bone from 
his austerities, taking care of the infants, washing them, 
dressing them, feeding them. "Suffer the little children to 
come unto me." It was a time of heavy trial, with many 
hundreds dying, and as the result of their labors five of 
the Congregation died, martyrs to charity. But the dan- 
ger of death deterred no one, least of all Camillus. He 
was still at his post, even going about from door to door 
begging for food and clothing for the poor unfortunates. 
He knew no rest. Life was a time of penance. "The 
true apostolic life," he used to say to his followers, "con- 
sists in giving one's self no repose or rest." 

It was this spirit that ensured the success of his under- 
taking, and only three years after the establishment of 
the Congregation it was made an Order with solemn vows. 
Much against his will Camillus was made the Father Gen- 
eral. Gradually the Order spread from city to city. In- 
stitutions were established everywhere, for wherever there 
w T as suffering there was an appeal to Camillus, and it was 
not in his big heart to be deaf to any appeal from the 
afflicted. 

It was all the work of Camillus, but in his deep humility 
he took to himself no glory. He wanted to keep himself 
in the background ; hence it is not surprising to learn that 
as soon as the work was well established he begged to be 
released from the generalship. He was suffered to resign, 
and he was glad; glad not at being relieved of care, but 
because now he would have more time to give to the sick. 
The most desirable holiday to him was the time he spent 
in the Hospital of the Holy Spirit in Rome. He hated 
to take time to sleep. Eour or five hours sufficed him; 
the rest of the time he spent in visiting the patients of 
whom there were four hundred in the hospital, and so 



ST. CAM ILL US DE L ELL IS '49 

exhausted did he become that he had to drag himself from 
bed to bed, falling sometimes from sheer weakness. 

But the joy of it! "There is no music/' said he, 
"sweeter to me than the voices of the sick, all clamoring at 
once to be assisted, no perfume more delicious than the 
odor of drugs and ointments that bring such relief to the 
sick; and if it were a thousand times more offensive I 
would gladly endure it if thereby I could gain anything 
for the souls of the sufferers." 

It was work enough to kill a strong man, and Camillus 
was only the wreck of a man. In watching him tend the 
sick no one could guess how much he himself was suffering. 
For forty-six years the sore in his leg troubled him, get- 
ting worse as the years went on ; for thirty-eight years he 
suffered from a severe rupture which he got in caring for 
the sick ; one of his feet had two great sores which caused 
him perpetual agony; and added to this was a painful 
kidney trouble. He ate so little that he was but a shadow. 
He was without a doubt the sickest man in the hospital 
but the most uncomplaining. The more he suffered the 
more he felt impelled to come to the aid of others. "So 
great is the happiness I hope for, that all pain and suffer- 
ing is a pleasure." His strength was from God. The 
Blessed Sacrament, the Crucifix, the Precious Blood which 
were the great objects of his devotion — there he found that 
superhuman strength. He knew himself as a great sin- 
ner ; how little were all these pains if they could atone for 
his evil youth. Always he felt that sense of sin. "O 
Lord," he would pray, "I confess that I am the most 
wretched of sinners, most undeserving of Thy favor; but 
save me by Thy infinite goodness. My hope is placed in 
Thy divine mercy through Thy Precious Blood." Every 
day of his life he went to confession with sentiments of 
the greatest sorrow. 

At last the old body worn out by vigils and pains could 
stand it no longer. Camillus was not afraid to die. He 



50 GEEAT PENITENTS 

could look back on a wonderful work. 'No less than six- 
teen houses of the Order had been established in Italy and 
hundreds of members were serving the sick while hundreds 
more had died the death of saints. So, calmly on July 
14, 1614, he passed away in his sixty-fifth year, universally 
mourned as universally loved. Eleven years after his 
death the body was exhumed and lo ! what had been full 
of sores in life was now fresh, incorrupt. Many miracles 
were wrought through his intercession, and it was very easy 
for all to believe that this was a saint. St. John Camillus 
was canonized by Benedict XIV in 1746. Leo XIII 
chose him as the patron of the sick and of those who at- 
tended them. The soldier of fortune had won life's great- 
est battle. 



ABBOT DE RANCE 

STRANGE as it may seem, the history of the Bour- 
bon kings of France makes excellent spiritual read- 
ing. It is a story in great part of chicanery, of 
utter worldliness, of crime ; yet underneath the gay laugh 
of the de Montespans, the Pompadours, the DuBarrys, one 
always hears "the burden of the desert of the sea" — that 
the world and its glory are but vanity and affliction of 
spirit. Guizot says somewhere that everybody in those 
days, no matter how evil his life may have been, sought to 
die well. One could make a very edifying collection of 
testimonies, from Voltaire down, of men and women who 
after a life of sin, of forgetfulness of God, were compelled 
to admit that life had turned to ashes on their lips. As 
young Cinq-Mars, once the favorite of Louis XIII and 
afterwards a traitor to his benefactor, wrote to his mother 
just before he paid the penalty for his crime : "Now that 
I make not a single step which does not lead me to death, 
I am more capable than anybody else of estimating the 
value of the things of the world." 

But amid much that was corrupt, and much also that 
was worthy of France and its noblest, there is nothing more 
edifying than the conversion of the young courtier, Ar- 
mand de Ranee, whose subsequent holiness and austerity 
gave so much glory to the abbey of La Trappe, with which 
his name will be forever associated. 

When Don Pierre Le Nain, prior of La Trappe, w r rote 
the life of de Ranee, — the most complete biography we 
have of that wonderful penitent — he spoke of him as, "the 
illustrious and pious abbe of the monastery of Notre Dame 

51 



52 GREAT PENITENTS 

de la Trappe, one of the most beautiful monuments of the 
Cistercian Order, the perfect mirror of penance, the com- 
plete model of all the Christian and religious virtues, the 
worthy son and faithful imitator of the great St. Ber- 
nard." 

A glowing panegyric, indeed, yet an accurate description 
of de Ranee. But these words do not tell all. They do 
not tell from what depths this great penitent ascended to 
the spiritual heights. De Ranee is a great example of 
what the grace of God can do in a man's heart. It was 
only the grace of God that could take that worldly, sensual, 
flippant courtier, that pleasure-loving abbe of the salon, 
and mould him over into a model of rigorous asceticism. 
Much of it is an unpleasant story, as the story of sin must 
ever be, but to understand the real man and the glory of 
his accomplishment one must know the poor material he 
had at hand when he began the work of forming the spir- 
itual man. To know de Ranee the sinner and de Ranee 
the penitent is to realize that with the grace of God every 
man may aspire to sanctity. One is not scandalized at 
the early life of the man so much as he is edified by the 
manner in which he broke away from that life and wept 
bitter tears over it. One forgets the denying Peter when 
one sees the tear-furrowed cheeks of the penitent apostle. 

Armand Jean le Bouthillier de Ranee was born at Paris, 
January 9, 1626. The family of le Bouthillier was one 
of the oldest and most illustrious families in the kingdom. 
A le Bouthillier had been archbishop of Tours, another 
had been bishop of Aire, and another had been secretary 
of state and grand treasurer. Originally the family had 
belonged to Brittany and was related to the dukes of that 
province. Armand's father, Dennis, a seigneur, had held 
several offices, and at the time of Armand's birth was sec- 
retary to Queen Maria de Medici, the -"fat bankeress of 
Florence," as one of the court had dubbed her when she 
came to marry the king of France. Dennis de Ranee had 



ABBOT DE EAKCE 53 

married Charlotte Joly and by her had eight children, five 
daughters and three sons. Most of the daughters became 
religious ; of the sons, the eldest was a canon at Notre Dame 
in Paris, the youngest, the Chevalier de Ranee, entered 
the naval service. 

Armand was the second son. When he was born Riche- 
lieu was powerful with Maria de Medici, the queen- 
mother ; he was the great power in France. It was before 
the break between the great cardinal and the queen-regent. 
Dennis de Ranee's position as secretary to the queen brought 
him into contact with Richelieu, who must have thought 
favorably of him for we find him acting as godfather to 
the new baby de Ranee and even giving him his own name, 
Armand Jean. It was surely a great honor, for the name 
of Richelieu was a mighty one that year of 1626, when 
the Cardinal had succeeded in a master stroke for the uni- 
fication of France by causing the destruction of most of 
the feudal castles. It may be noted that there is a simi- 
larity in the cases of Richelieu and de Ranee. Richelieu 
had prepared for a military career, with no notion of the 
ecclesiastical state, and it was only when his elder brother, 
disgusted with the world, had refused the bishopric of 
Lucon and had become a monk of the Grande Chartreuse 
that the younger brother, in order to keep the revenues 
in the family, was persuaded that he had a vocation. It 
was an evil of the times, and the Church and religion suf- 
fered deep wounds because too often unworthy bishops 
were foisted upon her for the sake of material gain. It 
was one of the evil results of Gallicanism, for the Con- 
cordat of Francis I had put the Church in France and the 
episcopate in the hands of the king. 

It is not that Richelieu was unworthy. Whatever we 
may think of his politics, he was at heart religious, and 
devoted himself to his poor diocese before he came to his 
great position of power. He was a zealous reformer and 
did lasting service to religion in writing his "Instruction 



54 GREAT PENITENTS 

du Chretien/' to be read every Sunday at Mass in all the 
churches of his diocese, at a time when the great evil was 
ignorance of religion. The Church benefited by the strong 
hand of the Cardinal. When he was convoking the As- 
sembly of Notables, he declared, "We do protest before 
the living God that we have no other aim and intention 
but His honor and the welfare of our subjects." When 
he was dying in 1642, he stretched out his hands towards 
the Holy Eucharist which was being brought to him, and 
said, "There is my Judge before Whom I shall soon ap- 
pear; I pray Him with all my heart to condemn me if I 
have ever had any other aim than the welfare of religion 
and of the State." But great statesman though Richelieu 
was, and one of the greatest servants France ever had, no 
one would presume to call him, save perhaps in His early 
days as a bishop, a great shepherd of souls. 

Just as Richelieu had not been destined for the Church, 
so was it with his godson. The younger Dennis de Ranee 
had been from his very cradle the abbot of La Trappe. 
It was another of the evils resulting from the interference 
of the State in the affairs of the Church when a family 
could presume to claim the right over Church property. 
Dennis died and Armand thereby becoming the heir in- 
herited the abbey. This meant, of course, that whether 
or not he had a vocation to the religious life he would 
enter the ecclesiastical state. 

However fine a mind the young Armand had, events 
proved that he had little vocation for the Church. That, 
however, did not appear in the beginning. It never 
seemed to enter the minds of his elders that any special 
preparation for a religious life was necessary. Enough 
that the lad knew his Latin and Greek, and had the fine 
manners of a gentleman. The future abbe had his three 
teachers, one for Latin, one for Greek and a third for his 
manners. He was remarkably precocious, and his biogra- 
phers say that he was scarcely out of swaddling clothes 



ABBOT DE EANCE 55 

when lie could explain the Greek and Latin poets. It was 
this very precociousness that served him in good stead 
when there was question about his appointment to a cer- 
tain benefice. When the benefice became vacant his name 
was put on the list of those recommended. Naturally the 
clergy objected to such an appointment. They did not 
want this "abbe in jacket." The friends of the le Bouthil- 
lier family, however, urged the competency of the boy, 
and finally Caussin, confessor to the king, Louis XIII, 
decided to test the fitness of the boy whom the king de- 
sired to honor. And as the test for the appointment — 
queer test for an ecclesiastical benefice — Caussin gave the 
boy Homer to translate ! Armand did it and did it well ; 
and Caussin was so pleased at this exhibition of precocious 
learning that he withdrew his opposition to the appoint- 
ment. The whole affair would be ridiculous, if it were 
not so sad. No wonder the real churchmen sorrowed at 
such appointments of babies to ecclesiastical offices, or 
rather to ecclesiastical revenues. 

Armand was so precocious that we find him at the age of 
twelve publishing a translation of Anacreon under the 
protection of Richelieu. The young translator even dedi- 
cated the book to his godfather in a Greek letter ! It was 
not a great contribution to classical learning, but it was 
a marvelous thing for a boy of twelve to accomplish. Time 
came when de Ranee threw into the fire all that remained 
of the edition. Afterwards, when he was at La Trappe, a 
penitent after a stormy youth, he spoke of this literary 
debut of his, and said that he had kept in his library only 
one copy of the Anacreon and had finally given that away, 
not, however, as a good book, but "as one very strong and 
very well bound." He then went on to say that in the 
first years of his retreat before becoming a religious he 
had wanted to read the poets, but that since it only recalled 
old ideas, and since there was in such reading a subtle 
poison hidden under its flowers he at last gave it all up. 



56 GEE AT P E N I T E N T S 

But that was only long afterwards. De Ranee penitent 
must have smiled sadly as he thought of those early days 
in the sunshine of the court. 

No youth ever had better worldly prospects. The 
protege and godchild of Richelieu, he was on that account, 
as also because of his father, a favorite with Maria de 
Medici. She loved the bright lad, and would carry him 
in her arms, hold him on her knees, kiss him and call him 
her son. Richelieu, too, was very fond of him, chiefly 
no doubt on account of his wonderful talent, just as he 
had promised great things for young Pascal and his sister, 
and he showed his favor in a practical way by giving the 
lad many benefices. Fortune surely smiled on him. He 
was canon of Notre Dame, abbot of La Trappe, guaranteed 
a life of opulence, and all at the age of twelve. 

When the break came between Richelieu and the queen- 
mother, the de Ranee family was in a perilous position, 
but Dennis de Ranee was well drilled in politics; he had 
studied in a clever school. He remained faithful to the 
queen, who tried to make him keep away from Richelieu, 
but de Ranee was also faithful to his benefactor, and con- 
tinued to see the Cardinal, though only in secret, till 
Richelieu's death in 1642. Richelieu, the mighty, had 
gone the way of all flesh. " Treat me as the commonest of 
Christians/' he said to the priest who came to prepare him 
for death. He saw the littleness of worldly glory as he 
lay helpless on his death bed. "Let those who cannot re- 
frain from showing the excess of their weeping and lamen- 
tation," he said as his friends bemoaned his passing, "leave 
the room; let us pray for this soul." The great Richelieu 
was at last but this soul seeking mercy from God. So 
passed, too, Louis XIII, who in the light that comes from 
beyond the grave saw what a puerile thing is all pretended 
royal magnificence. One of his historians tells us that in 
his last illness, "he was seen nearly always with his eyes 
open towards Heaven, as if he talked with God heart to 



ABBOT DERANCE 57 

heart." Toward the end he cried out, "My God, receive 
me to mercy." And to the Bishop of Meaux, who came 
to attend his last moments, he said simply, "You will of 
course see when the time comes for reading the agony- 
prayers. I have marked them all." The King of France 
was but a sinner that needed mercy. 

During the regency of Anne of Austria and Mazarin, 
who had succeeded Richelieu, young de Ranee continued 
his ecclesiastical studies. He attained great success in 
philosophy and theology, and — a sign of his favor with the 
ruling powers — dedicated his thesis to Anne. He was, 
moreover, a successful preacher and, had he applied him- 
self to that work, might have reached an eminence as great 
as that reached by Bossuet, who was his fellow pupil. But 
successful as de Ranee was in his studies owing to his 
abundance of natural talent, he did not accomplish so 
much as he might. The reason was that his heart was 
divided. He was not primarily an aspirant to the priest- 
hood because he felt that he had a vocation. That was 
but secondary. The priesthood was simply a career, a 
necessary state for the benefices conferred upon him. No 
man can serve two masters. But he would be an ecclesi- 
astic and a man of society at the same time. He did not 
see the incongruity of that ; he had all too many examples 
before him of men who had thrust themselves upon the 
priesthood that shrunk away from their worldly touch. 

So we find young de Ranee, because of his social posi- 
tion, his family name, his royal connections, a frequenter 
of the salons. The most illustrious salon of the time was 
that of Madame Rambouillet, which became the centre of 
the world of nobility as well as the rendezvous of the lit- 
erati. It was a brilliant, clever, worldly society. It was 
a time when a new desire for things intellectual was being 
felt. It was the reaction from the licentiousness of the 
court of Henry IV. Refinement, grace, intellect were 
the valued things at Madame's, and here was laid the 



58 GEE AT PENITENTS 

foundation of the French Academy with which the name 
of Richelieu will ever be associated. Here, too, reigned 
the blue-stocking, of which Moliere made so much fun; 
and that artificiality is the worst that can be said of the 
Hotel Rambouillet. To all the salons — for others suc- 
ceeded Madame's — de Ranee had the entree. Needless to 
say, the influence of these worldlings, however intellectual 
and refined, was far from happy upon the impressionable 
youth who was destined for the sanctuary. Mingling with 
worldlings he became a worldling, too. After the Fronde, 
that Avar of the people and Parliament against Mazarin and 
his taxation, he resided sometimes at Paris, sometimes at 
Veretz, his patrimony. But wherever he was he was the 
man of the world. With an abundance of money he could 
indulge his luxurious tastes to the full. He could always 
go his friends one better. No feasts were more sumptuous 
than those given by him, no fetes more brilliant than his. 
He was always planning new pleasures, which assured 
him his position as a leader in society. In a word, he 
was in those days a worldling, nothing more. 

One of the pastimes to which de Ranee was devoted was 
that of hunting. One day while out hunting a chance 
shot from a hunter on the opposite bank of the river hit 
him, but by good luck, or, as he knew later on, by the 
Providence of God, the bullet hit the steel chain of his 
pouch and thus saved him from death. "What would 
have become of me," he meditates in his penitential days, 
"if God had called me in that moment?" 

At another time when he was staying at Veretz certain 
hunters came poaching upon his grounds. De Ranee, 
angered, attacked the leader of them, who wondered after- 
wards what had prevented him from killing de Ranee. 
But these narrow escapes from the judgment of God did 
not trouble the soul of the young courtier at the time. The 
grace of God had not yet touched him. 

With such worldly preparations he advanced to the 



ABBOT DE RANCE 59 

priesthood. He had been tonsured as a boy of nine in 
1635. In 1647 lie bad received bis degree of Bachelor 
of Theology when he was twenty-one, and his Licentiate 
in 1649. In 1651 he received Minor Orders, and in that 
same year was ordained to the priesthood. How unworthy 
he was of the sacred office he himself must have had some 
suspicion, for though magnificent vestments had been made 
ready for him to say his first Mass at Paris he withdrew 
to Chartreuse and there privately offered up his first Holy 
Sacrifice. But the humility, if such it was, was but tem- 
porary. De Ranee wanted to advance. His sole idea in 
entering the priesthood was preferment; the spiritual 
counted for nothing. He had Richelieu's ambition without 
Richelieu's stable character. But times were hardly favor- 
able for his advancement. He had been a protege of 
Richelieu, and that was enough to discredit him with the 
reigning powers. Moreover he had taken part in the 
Fronde against Mazarin, and Mazarin would not put him- 
self out much to assist those who had opposed him. Rather 
did the Cardinal take delight in opposing the protege of 
his predecessor. But de Ranee was not much disturbed by 
that. If advancement came he would welcome it, but he 
would not think too much about it if it interfered with his 
convenience and pleasure. For that reason he refused the 
bishopric of Leon, because the revenue was not big enough, 
and also because it was too far away from the brilliancy of 
the court. He had no notion of sacrificing himself for the 
ministry. The Church was to him just what a military 
career might be, a means of livelihood and a certain power. 
It seems almost incredible that any such notion could be 
entertained by him, but there is no sense in minimizing 
things. All tends to the greater glory of the penitent de 
Ranee once he had opened his eyes to the enormity of the 
crime he had committed in forcing himself into the sanc- 
tuary without a divine call. 

So the priest passed the time as any worldly baron 



60 GEEAT PENITENTS 

might. Passionately fond of hunting, he would follow the 
chase three or four hours in the morning and then come 
to the Sorbonne to sustain a thesis or preach at Paris with 
all tranquillity, without any qualms of conscience. One 
day his friend Champrallon asked him, "Where are you 
going, abbe ? What are you doing today ?" "This morn- 
ing," replied the abbe, "to preach as an angel, and this 
evening to hunt as a devil." 

One is not surprised when told that de Ranee had a 
strong inclination towards the military life. At any rate 
he had little inclination towards the sanctuary he had sworn 
to serve. He was the typical court abbe, more interested 
in the vanities of the world than in the care of souls. Even 
his dress betrayed him. He wore a violet robe of precious 
stuff and also wore a wig. There was a diamond on his 
finger and an emerald on each glove. When hunting there 
was about him absolutely no sign of the priest. He carried 
a sword and pistols and dressed accordingly. At home in 
quieter company he dressed in black with gold buttons. He 
was a man of courage and spirit, and a fearless horseman, 
though many accidents happened from which he narrowly 
escaped with his life. He had all the accomplishments of 
the soldier, none, or few, of the priest. He rarely said 
Mass. 

It would be a mistake to consider de Ranee as a priest ; 
he was merely a man of the world who for financial reasons 
had taken orders. So also would it be a mistake to consider 
him as the typical Erench priest of his age. His bad ex- 
ample was as shocking to the good people and the clergy of 
his time as it would be to us today. It was the result of 
secular interference in affairs of the Church, and the 
Church never ceased to protest against it. 

The Church in France in the seventeenth century needs 
no apology. History, it is true, loves to talk about 
Richelieu and Mazarin and De Retz and the court abbes, 
and from their lives to make platitudes about the weakness 



ABBOT DE EAICE 61 

of religion in the France of the Bourbons. It has little 
or nothing to say about Bossuet and Bourdaloue and 
Fenelon and Flechier. For the seventeenth century in 
France, in spite of the noise that is made by Voltaire and 
Rousseau and the other Encyclopedists, was a great Catho- 
lic era. St. Francis de Sales, St. Jane Frances de Chantal, 
St. Vincent de Paul, Father Olier of the Sulpicians, Cardi- 
nal de Berulle, founder of the Oratory; the founding of 
the Sisters of Charity, of the Ursulines, of the Christian 
Brothers and the bringing of the Carmelites from Spain, 
under the protection of Cardinal de Berulle ; the wonderful 
work of the Grand Seminaries, and perhaps more than 
anything else the great missionary activity, with the estab- 
lishment of the Seminary for Foreign Missions; the mis- 
sion labors of the Jesuits in China and Canada, with such 
heroes as Lallemant and de Breboeuf — these are but a few 
names picked at random from Catholic France of the seven- 
teenth century. 

It was the prevalence of this spirit of faith that eventu- 
ally worked for the conversion of de Ranee. The event 
which led to that conversion was his association, unhappy 
as that association was, with the Duchess de Montbazon. 
The Duke de Montbazon was a relative of de Ranee's 
father. His life had been a wicked one. He was a roue 
up to the time of his death in 1644 at the age of eighty- 
six. He had married the young Duchess when she was but 
sixteen, a wonderfully beautiful girl. She had even de- 
cided to become a religious, when, flattered by the offer of 
the Duke so many years older than herself, she sacrificed 
all for the social position he could give her. The young 
Duchess soon forgot all religious sentiment. She deter- 
mined to enjoy the world to the full, and enjoy it while 
she was young. It was a ton mot of hers that one was good 
for nothing after thirty and that she wanted to be thrown 
into the river at that age. De Ranee, owing to his rela- 
tionship with the Duke, was a welcome visitor. In this way 



02 GREAT PENITENTS 

he came to the notice of the young Duchess, and was soon 
a great favorite of hers. When the old Duke finally died 
she was thirty-two and did not look more than twenty. 
She had changed her mind about wanting to be thrown into 
the river. No wonder people talked about the attention 
paid by the young abbe to the frivolous Duchess. Even 
had the association been innocent it was scandalous, show- 
ing what little conception he had of his dignity. Her 
name was a byword. At one time she came near being 
drowned; in fact the rumor had spread that she had per- 
ished. No such luck. The accident but added to her fame, 
or rather notoriety. The Duke of Beaufort with all his 
wealth became her slave, and de Ranee seemed to have 
passed out of her life. The Duchess cared not so long as 
she had money. She cared not where it came from. She 
loved the easy way of the world; there was nothing she 
would not sacrifice for social position and power — a far 
cry from the days when she yearned to become a nun ! 

De Ranee was twenty-six when his father died. He 
became thereby the head of the house of de Ranee, and 
was in a position to live in great style. He had been 
w T orldly enough before ; he was more so now. He became 
noted for his luxurious living, his fine table, his beautiful 
equipage. He rode in state drawn by eight horses, with 
elegant livery and followed by a great train of dependents. 
Even the King did not enjoy a greater magnificence or 
show greater eclat. No wonder that the Duchess strove 
again for his notice. 

Speaking of this period in de Ranee's life, his biographer 
Le Nain, writes : "A youth passed in amusements of the 
court, in the vain search for success, even damnable, after 
being engaged in the ecclesiastical state without any other 
vocation than his ambition which carried him with a kind 
of fury and blindness to the first dignity of the Church — 
this man, plunged wholly in the love of the world, is or- 
dained priest, and he who had forgotten the way to Heaven 



ABBOT DE RANGE 63 

is received as doctor of the Sorbonne. Behold what was the 
life of Monsieur le Bouthillier up to the age of thirty years, 
always at feasts, always in company, in play, in the diver- 
sions of the promenade or the chase. " 

De Ranee's uncle, the Archbishop of Tours, was unable 
to get him appointed as his coadjutor, but he succeeded in 
making him his deputy to the Assembly of the Clergy in 
1645, and then had him appointed as first Almoner to the 
Duke of Orleans. The natural ability of de Ranee came 
to the fore. He did excellent work in his new position, 
and when it was finished returned to his estates at Veretz, 
perhaps with new designs to feed his ambition. But the 
day of God's grace was nearing. 

The Duchess de Montbazon died, so suddenly that even 
de Ranee had not heard the news. One day he came to 
call on her. He entered her apartment, and instead of 
beholding the sprightly, beautiful woman, he came face 
to face with her corpse lying upon the bier. The shock to 
him was a terrible one. Even long afterwards he would say 
nothing about that day or about the woman who had made 
him almost lose his soul. Once he wrote : "Those who die, 
well or ill, often die more for those they leave in the world 
than for themselves." Stunned, grief -stricken, he returned 
to Veretz to bury himself in solitude. The blackest melan- 
choly fell upon him. He passed the days riding, trying to 
forget, but then came the long, torturing nights, so unbear- 
able. He even consulted the dead, seeking to summon the 
Duchess back to speak to him. But the answer came in a 
way he did not expect. One day he seemed to have a vision 
in which he beheld the woman suffering in the midst of 
flames. It was very likely in reference to this event that 
he afterwards wrote : "While I followed the disorder of 
my heart, I not only swallowed iniquity as water, but all 
that I read and heard about sin only served to make me 
more guilty. Finally the blessed time came when it pleased 
the Father of mercies to turn Himself to me ; I saw at the 



64 GREAT PENITENTS 

dawn of day the infernal monster with whom I had lived ; 
the fright with which I was seized at the terrible sight was 
so great that I cannot believe I will recover from it as long 
as I live." 

The hand of God touched the sinner. He was converted 
in that instant, and determined to devote the rest of his life 
to penance to seek to expiate the scandal he had given. 
In this first fervor he w T ent at once to consult an old friend, 
Mother Louise of the Visitation, at Tours. She directed 
him to Pere Seguenat, and from him he went to Pere de 
Mouchy, a learned priest who belonged to one of the first 
families in Prance. But after these spiritual consultations 
he returned to Veretz without having reached any decision 
as to his future course. But Veretz, where he had lived 
like a king, had lost all its charm. The fine home with its 
furnishings of gold and silver, its luxurious beds, its price- 
less paintings, its lovely gardens, its whole atmosphere of 
softness disgusted the young penitent who had come to real- 
ize what a poor thing is life. He began his reform at once 
by practising frugality, by discharging most of his servants, 
by giving up hunting and even by renouncing the more 
innocent amusement of drawing of which he was very fond. 
His whole time now was taken up with works of penance, 
in the company of a few friends who joined with him in his 
practices of piety. 

Shortly after his conversion de Ranee came to Paris 
on business. While there he avoided his former friends, 
kept away from the salons where he had been so popular, 
and instead went to lodge at the Oratory. It was not an 
easy task for him to give up his world. Old thoughts 
haunted him, temptations to the old life afflicted him. It 
was hard for his social set to regard his conversion as 
other than a joke. It was no joke, however, to de Ranee; 
it was a struggle to the death. To end it all and to enable 
him to get away from the temptations of the old life he 
was advised to go to the foreign missions, even to India. 



ABBOT DE EANOE 65 

He did not go; not that he shrank from the hardship, 
but God had other work for him to do. 

Still undecided, de Ranee repaired to Blois as it was his 
quarter to serve as Almoner to the Duke of Orleans. Gas- 
ton, Duke of Orleans, had revolted against his brother, 
Louis XIII, but had escaped. He had reappeared at court 
when Louis was dying, but had then retired to Blois, a dis- 
credited, deserted man. When de Ranee arrived at Blois 
the Duke, who was coming to the end of his useless life, 
was thinking of doing penance. Surely he needed it. He 
withdrew to the Chateau of Chambro, and de Ranee 
was one of the party who accompanied him. De Ranee 
owned a priory near Chambro, served at that time by 
seven or eight religious, and for a time he went to live 
with the monks in the midst of those solitary woods. He 
returned to Paris, but was hardly there when a messenger 
came from Blois to tell him of the serious illness of the 
Duke. He repaired thither at once, and had the satisfac- 
tion of seeing the Duke die in sentiments of great contri- 
tion. De Ranee's prayers and example had no doubt con- 
tributed much to this happy ending. He was left almost 
alone with the corpse, and was deeply affected by the sight 
of death, another warning of the emptiness of life. When 
the funeral was over he went to Mans and there hid him- 
self for two months, even changing his name so that he 
might pursue his life of penance without interruption. 
He was fighting against himself and the evil inclinations 
that he had so long indulged. 

For a long time de Ranee had been considering submit- 
ting his future conduct to the bishops of Aleth and of Com- 
minges, and January 27 he arrived at Comminges. He 
accompanied the bishop on his diocesan visitation. He 
thought of building a hermitage in the mountains, but 
the bishops wisely opposed this extreme idea. "You," 
said they, "think only of living for yourself." 

The bishop of Aleth approved of de Ranee's determina- 



60 GfiEAT PENITENTS 

tion to get rid of his fortune, but lie counseled him against 
a life of solitude. The abbe agreed to give up his benefices, 
recognizing the fact that appointment merely for the sake 
of material revenues, was not according to the spirit of the 
Church. It was, however, a problem for him to know what 
to do, for he did not like going to live in a regular mon- 
astery. 

De Ranee returned again to Veretz, decided to put his 
plans into execution. Needless to say, there was much op- 
position on the part of his friends, and of his servants who 
did not fancy being sacrificed to the penitential desires of 
the master of the house, no matter how highly they regarded 
him. It was hard for them, but it was harder for him to 
part with all his worldly grandeur. He had no intention, 
however, of turning back. There was sorrow in his heart ; 
never again could he enjoy life. So he sold his silver and 
gave the proceeds to the poor. He owned two houses in 
Paris. One of them he gave to the Hotel Dieu, the other 
to the General Hospital. Finally he sold his ancestral 
estates of Veretz and gave the proceeds to the hospitals. 
Of all his benefices he reserved only La Trappe, which was 
to be the scene of his later life. He had effectually broken 
with the past. 

The abbey of La Trappe was situated in Normandy at 
a distance of eighty-four miles from Paris, in a solitary 
valley surrounded by forests and lakes. It had been 
founded in 1122, having been built by Rotron II, Count 
of Perche, who while returning from England had made a 
vow that if he escaped shipwreck he would build a chapel 
in honor of Our Lady. The chapel which he built was 
changed into a monastery in 1140, and in 1147 was united 
to the Cistercians. At the time it was founded St. Bernard 
was abbot of Clairvaux. St. Louis had taken the abbey 
under his protection. Subsequently, when the English 
ravaged France, it was pillaged many times. In the six- 
teenth century it was! one of the abbeys given "in com- 



ABBOT DE EAICE 67 

mendam," and in this way it finally came into the de 
Ranee family. It was not much of a prize, for the glory 
of La Trappe had long ago departed. Before de Ranee 
came to live there and reform the abbey its doors were open 
day and night, and men and women were permitted freely 
to enter the cloister. It was a sorry place, fallen into 
decay. It was far from attractive to the man who had 
been a dainty courtier, but, as he wrote to Madame de 
Guise, "It pleased God to send me here. What matter 
where one lives since one must die ? " 

Not only was the building in ruins; the spirit of the 
monastery was also in need of reform. The few monks 
who kept the place were content to let well enough alone, 
and when de Ranee in his new zeal spoke of reformation 
they opposed him. Finally they gave their consent un- 
willingly, but de Ranee, seeing what little help they would 
be to him, let them go or stay as they pleased, giving a 
pension to those who wished to leave. 

It was a problem for de Ranee when he determined to 
settle at La Trappe. One day he was nearly crushed by 
the falling of a ceiling. He took refuge in the chapel, and 
while praying there heard the monks chanting the psalm — 
Qui conftdunt in Domino — Who trust in the Lord. It 
came to him as the voice of God, and he had no more fear. 
He went to Paris to seek the King's permission to establish 
himself in the abbey. Some of his friends, holy men, 
sought to deter him on account of the difficulty of restoring 
the abbey to the rule. "I see no other door than that of the 
cloister/' he replied, "at which I could knock to return 
to God. I have no other resource after so much disorder 
than to clothe me with a sack and haircloth and pass my 
days in the bitterness of my heart." 

A friend of de Ranee's, an abbe, said to him: "I do 
not know, sir, if you understand well what you ask. You 
are a priest, a doctor of the Sorbonne, and otherwise a 
man of position ; nourished in delicacy and luxury, you are 



68 GKEAT PENITENTS 

used to having a great train and the making of good cheer ; 
you are on the road to be a bishop at the first opportunity ; 
your temperament is extremely feeble, and you ask to be 
a monk, which is the most abject state in the Church, the 
most penitent, the most hidden and even the most despised. 
It will be necessary for you henceforth to live in tears, in 
work, in retreat, and to study only Jesus Christ crucified. 
Think seriously of it." 

De Ranee replied : "It is true, I am a priest, but I have 
lived up to now in a manner unworthy of my character. I 
am a doctor, but I do not know the alphabet of Christianity ; 
I make some figure in the world, but I am like those posts 
which show the way to travelers yet never move them- 
selves." 

The new life was not easy for the converted courtier. 
Many a time memories of the past sought to lure him from 
his good intentions, many a time did he have to battle with 
temptations. He wrote to the Bishop of Aleth: "I cannot 
understand how I have the hardihood to undertake a pro- 
fession which wants only detached souls, and how, my pas- 
sions being as vivid as they are, I dare enter into a state 
of veritable death. I conjure you, sir, to ask of God my 
conversion in a circumstance which ought to be the decision 
of my eternity, and that after having violated so many 
times the vows of my baptism He will give me the grace to 
keep those I am now going to make, which are as a renewal 
of it, with so much fidelity that I may repair in some 
manner the errors of my past life." 

In April, 1663, de Ranee wrote to some friends: "I am 
sure you will be surprised when you know the resolution 
I have taken to give the rest of my life to penance. If I 
were not held down by the weight of my sins, many ages 
of the life I am going to embrace could not satisfy for a 
moment for that life I have lived in the world." He finally 
got the King's permission to have La Trappe restored to 
the rule, but on condition that at his death it should be- 
come a commendatory abbey again. 



ABBOT DE RANGE 69 

To prepare himself for the work he was about to under- 
take de Ranee went to Perseigne and spent five months in 
the novitiate, learning his new profession. While there 
he became very ill, and the doctors assured him that his 
health would be worth nothing if he did not give up his 
idea of following the monastic life. But the warning did 
not deter him. When he went to La Trappe he was cured. 
The great Physician of souls was watching over him. 

Before pronouncing his vows at Perseigne, de Bance 
made a visit to La Trappe and there read his will by which 
he gave to his monastery whatever property still remained 
in his possession. He had made his adieus to the world. 

On June 26, 1664, de Bance made his profession at La 
Trappe. His real life work was begun. His first care was 
to repair the buildings and make them habitable, and dur- 
ing those days he worked as laboriously as the humblest 
brother. "Are we less sinners," he asked, "than the first 
religious of Citeaux ? Have we less need of penance ? " 
The reply made to him was that they were weaker and could 
not practise the same austerities. "Bather say," he replied, 
"that we have less zeal." 

The abbot's good example soon prevailed and the monks 
gave up the use of wine, fish, meat and eggs. Labor be- 
came sweet, and de Bance, to set the example, devoted him- 
self to the cultivation of a piece of wild land. 

During those days the cause of the reform of the abbeys, 
which meant their restoration to the austerities of the 
primitive rule, was in the air. Many abbeys had instituted 
the reform. Those of the strict observance tried to form 
an independent order under the government of the abbot 
of Prieres. De Bance was appointed by the regular com- 
munity to go to Borne to plead the cause of reform. He 
arrived there November 16, 1664, and had an audience 
with the Holy Father, Alexander VII. It was a hard 
task. Beformers were regarded as singular men, very 
close to schism, even when they were well intentioned, and 



70 GKEAT PENITENTS 

seeing his cause lost, de Ranee returned home. When he 
arrived at La Trappe with the unwelcome news the abbot 
of Prieres ordered him to go back to Rome and again plead 
the cause of the reformed rule. De Ranee obeyed. He 
redoubled his penance, living on bread and water only, and 
thinking only of God. Back in Rome, he frequented the 
churches, caring for no other sights, and went as often as 
possible to pray at the tombs of the apostles and martyrs. 
But he had to return home again without having accom- 
plished his purpose. On the way back he visited different 
monasteries, gaining information to help him in the work 
of governing his own monastery, and getting new zeal for 
the task. 

When de Ranee arrived at La Trappe word came from 
Rome that the Pope had not sanctioned the strict observ- 
ance proposed. In the Bull "In Suprema" he settled all 
disputes by making certain concessions and by laying down 
certain rules to govern the abbeys. De Ranee of course 
submitted with true obedience, confident in the wisdom of 
the Holy Father, and certain that if God wished it the 
strict observance would in due time prevail. The new 
regulations were accepted by the General Chapter at Oi- 
teaux in 1667, though even then de Ranee expressed his 
opposition before the vote was taken. 

De Ranee's whole heart now was taken up with the desire 
to do penance. He was a changed man. There was a 
majesty even in his exterior, due to the deep spirituality, 
that had come into his life. He aimed to sanctify himself 
and to make his monastery a holy place. During his brief 
absence from the monastery in May, 1666, there came a 
relaxation in the discipline of the abbey, but as soon as 
he returned he made peace at once and set about needed 
repairs, built cells, and two chapels. His penance was not 
a mere idle moaning over the past, but hard work for God's 
glory. Gradually the discipline became more strict. The 
monks slept on pallets of straw, with a block of wood for 



ABBOT DE EAJTCE 71 

a pillow. In Lent they kept the strict fast, and spent their 
time in prayer, silence and work. Guests were welcomed 
with kindness and no questions asked. Already the good 
influence of the monastery was being felt. The poor were 
fed, schools and workshops were established. De Ranee 
preached to his brethren in the abbey, heard their confes- 
sions, and in every way fortified them in their spiritual 
combat. 

Thus passed five or six years. The abbey grew as its 
good fame spread. Up to the time of his death in 1700 
de Ranee had received ninety-seven religious and forty- 
nine brothers. He kept account of them all and wrote 
their history. One such edifying story is that of Pierre or 
Francois Fore, who had been sub-lieutenant in a corps of 
grenadiers. He was a brave man, and had been often 
wounded in battle. He had been the victim of all kinds of 
vice and was convicted of a dozen different crimes. Obliged 
to flee the country, he knew not where to turn, whether 
to England, or Germany or Hungary. He even thought of 
going to the Turks. Somehow he heard of La Trappe, 
and he decided to go there. He made the journey of two 
hundred miles, and after a frightful struggle arrived at 
the abbey at the end of winter. He knocked at the abbey 
door, and was admitted. He was a pitiable sight, his face 
was hardened, his eyes haggard, he looked more like a 
ferocious beast than a man. De Ranee kindly received the 
poor penitent, who w T as plainly near death from tubercu- 
losis. Scarcely was he inside the haven of penance w 7 hen 
he poured forth his life blood and died. It was such cases 
that brought consolation to the heart of de Ranee and 
repaid him for all his sorrows. 

But as the renown of the abbey increased, so also did 
the slanders against de Ranee spread. He was sneered at, 
the errors of his youth were retailed, and his conversion 
was regarded as mere vanity, as a matter of self-advertise- 



72 GEEAT PENITENTS 

ment. But the penitent did not mind what was said. He 
felt he deserved it all and more. 

In 1672 de Ranee again asked the King to allow the 
reformed rule to be established. The request was the signal 
for abuse, heaped upon de Ranee by those who did not ap- 
prove. He was denounced for his doctrines, accused of 
hypocrisy in seeking to introduce new ideas. The King 
submitted the matter to his advisers. De Ranee's adver- 
saries opposed him at Rome and again the request was 
refused. But he was not disheartened. He went about 
his personal sanctification, no matter how great the ob- 
stacles. And the obstacles, indeed, were many. In 1676 
he contracted the disease of which he eventually died. 
The pain did not stop him from working. He was com- 
pelled to spend three months in the infirmary, but a^ soon 
as possible he rejoined the community. In 1689 he was the 
victim of a great fever, but when that was passed he was 
back at work, though a relapse soon laid him low again. 
Sickness did not worry him. He was not afraid to die. 
"The life of a sinner like me/' he said, "always lasts too 
long." 

Bossuet, who had been his fellow student, came to visit 
him several times. He loved the place and would assist 
at the offices day and night. De Ranee had thought of 
giving up the abbey but Bossuet, knowing the great good 
his friend was doing, advised him to wait. One loves to 
think of the Eagle of Meaux, the great orator who would 
not mince words even when he was talking to the King 
and thundering at him the warnings of eternal damnation 
if he did not break with the infamous de Montespan, 
resting his soul in prayer in the solitude of La Trappe. 
Bossuet knew as well as de Ranee, though in a different 
way, the foolishness of the life of sin. When the Grand 
Monarch, Louis XIV, lay upon his death bed he must have 
remembered the many warnings of the preacher. At any 
rate he made a good end. "Prayers are offered in all 



ABBOT DE BANCE 73 

the churches for Your Majesty's life," said the parish 
priest of Versailles. "That is not the question," said 
Louis; "It is my salvation that much needs praying for." 

Always patient under abuse and calumny, de Ranee 
knew how to sympathize with others. It was no doubt 
due to his prayers and his good example that others left 
the sinful world to do penance. Like Louise de la Val- 
liere, discarded mistress of the king, they could say as she : 
"I quit the world without regret, but not without pain. I 
believe, I hope, I love." La Valliere led a hard, peniten- 
tial life for thirty-five years. How many moralists since 
have sneered at her wickedness, and how few have had the 
courage to imitate her penitence. When the sermons of 
de Ranee — "Of the Sanctity and Duties of the Monastic 
Life" — were gathered together, Bossuet, no mean judge, 
wanted to have them printed. De Ranee in his humility 
threw them into the fire, but happily the manuscript was 
rescued and published. The book aroused a storm. It 
was attacked by Protestants, and even Mabillon entered 
into a controversy with de Ranee over some of his ideas 
put forth as to whether or not monks in an abbey like that 
of La Trappe should devote themselves to study. But the 
controversy ended, and Mabillon came to visit La Trappe. 

De Ranee was dead to the past. He never referred to 
his life in the world. That was a closed chapter to him ; 
he wanted it to be closed to everybody else. But he had 
no softness because of his own past sins. He had no pity 
on evils. "You are made for the cross," he would say. 
And again: "One dies only once; one cannot repair in 
a second life the mistakes of the first. What one is at the 
moment of death, that he is always." There was but one 
idea in his mind it was penance, penance, penance. No 
other cry escaped him. 

De Ranee was a prodigious letter-writer. He wrote to 
everybody, and always with the one thought, to bring his 
correspondents to the service of the Cross. His work is 



74 GREAT PENITENTS 

amazing when one considers that his illness was continuous. 
One hand had become useless from rheumatism; he suf- 
fered from a cough, from insomnia, from toothache, and 
long days and nights were passed in a chair in the in- 
firmary. But he never would relax his penances. Before 
his chair he had placed the words, "Lord, forget my 
ignorances and the sins of my youth." He always consid- 
ered himself the most wicked of sinners. Hence he had 
no mercy on himself. The monks complained to the Pope 
of his self-afflictions, and the Pope thereupon ordered him 
to relax his austerities. 

Severe as he was with himself, de Ranee was ever kind 
to others. He was full of sympathy for the sick, ready at 
all times to listen to the troubles of others, always all 
things to all men for the sake of winning them to Christ. 
In spite of his continued sickness he ruled his monastery. 
It was a marvel how one in his condition could accomplish 
so much. And all the while with patience, no matter what 
happened. His enemies wrote against him, preached 
against him. He was called a heretic, a fanatic. But, in 
his trust in God, he remained calm through it all. When 
he was very ill his brethren begged him to have the doc- 
tors. "I am in the hands of God," he replied. "It is He 
Who gives life, He Who takes it. He knows well how to 
cure me if it is His will that I should live. But why 
cure me ? Eor what good am I ? What could I do in 
this world but offend God V 9 

What good, indeed! Eor an answer to that one must 
ask the many souls in Heaven who were led thither by the 
penitential example of this true convert. Whenever the 
name of Trappist is heard, one thinks at once of this great 
abbot of La Trappe who made the name a benediction. 
Many a soul had found new strength in the presence of de 
Ranee. Thither in the lifetime of de Ranee had come 
the ill-fated James II. Whatever one may think of the 
ability of James, one thing certain is that he had remained 



ABBOT DE EAICE 75 

loyal to his faith at all costs. When he was dying in 
1701, the year after de Ranee's death, he said to his son : 
"I am about to leave this world, which has been to me 
nothing but a sea of tempests and storms. The Almighty 
has thought right to visit me with great afflictions ; serve 
Him with all your heart, and never place the crown 
of England in the balance with your eternal salvation." 

De Ranee's continued illness at last made him helpless. 
Thinking it for the good of the abbey he resigned to the 
King in 1695, and much to his relief another superior was 
appointed. In his sincere humility he became a simple 
religious, and was given the work of caring for the in- 
firmary. He still kept up his penances. Penance was his 
life. He made his general confession. As the end ap- 
proached he was serene, his countenance shining. They 
laid him upon a bed of ashes, and while answering the 
prayers for the departing he died, October 31, 1700, at 
the age of seventy-five, after thirty-five years spent in 
penitential solitude. 

His life reads like a page from the Fathers of the Desert. 

The name "Trappist," from this abbey of La Trappe, 
was long given to those Cistercians who followed the reform 
instituted by de Ranee. Today the Order is known as 
the "Order of the Reformed Cistercians," but the popular 
name of "Trappist" will continue long. 

La Trappe, sanctified by de Ranee, suffered many 
changes after his death. In the years between 1713 and 
1790 there were three hundred professions there. In the 
Revolution the Commissioners took from the monastery 
everything they could carry away and dispersed the reli- 
gious who sought asylum in foreign lands, some even 
coming to America. In 1815 the Cistercians repurchased 
the place. It was nothing but ruins then, but they rebuilt 
it and improved it till now it is a glorious abbey where 
the spirit of de Ranee is still vigorous. 



SILVIO PELLICO 

ONE of the treasures of the library of the University 
of Notre Dame is a copy of the tragedy of "Thomas 
Morns" inscribed by the author, Silvio Pellico, to 
that other great lover of liberty, Daniel O'Connell. Look- 
ing at the two illustrious names side by side one inevitably 
thinks of the other greater bond between them, the Catholic 
faith which both so prized. 

To Pellico, indeed, religion was everything. In the 
silence of his prison cell he had come to see the value of 
that faith which in the pride of his youth he had cast aside. 
Through tears of pain he had got again his vision of God. 
The little cell was a new Mount of the Transfiguration. 

A bulky book could be made out of the spiritual expe- 
riences of famous prisoners. Many there have been to 
whom the enforced retreat has been a grace from God. It 
was the only place where God chose to visit them. "I was 
in prison, and you came to me." 

Benvenuto Cellini, egotistic and boastful though he is, 
can stop long enough from his tirades and his self -lauda- 
tion to write a long poem about the blessings of his expe- 
rience in jail. Part of it runs thus: 

Whoe'er w r ould know the measure of God's strength 
And how far man can borrow from that source, 
He must in prison lie, I firmly hold, 
Harrow'd by thinking of his kindred dear, 
Wearied and sick with his own body's pain; 
And far must be his exile from his home. 
Now if you fain would prove yourself of worth, 

76 



SILVIO PELLICO 77 

Be dragged to prison guiltless; and then lie 
Month after month, while no man lends yon aid. 
And let them rob yon of your little all, 
While you face death and outrage every day, 
Hopeless of any bettering of your fate. 

In prison Paul Verlaine, "pauvre Verlaine," found 
his Heaven, only, perhaps, to lose it again. And Silvio 
Pel lico found in his ten years of imprisonment not only 
the material for one of the classic books of the world, but 
more than all that, a sense of sin, a renewed faith in God, 
and a spirituality that was to deepen till the day of his 
death. "Silvio Pellico," says one of his biographers, "owes 
a great celebrity to a great misfortune. Spielberg has been 
for him a pedestal which has raised him up and placed 
him in the light ; his contemporaries spoke of him with 
emotion, many with enthusiasm; his name is European." 
This was said because of his literary talents. But to 
us his fame is greater, not for what he wrote — the day 
came when literary renown meant nothing to him — but 
for the whole-heartedness with which he served God once 
he had set his feet on the penitential road of the Cross. 

Silvio Pellico was born at Saluzzo in Piedmont, June 24, 
1788. His parents were good simple people of the middle 
class, and at that time were in very good circumstances. 
There were six children, Luigi, Gioseffina, Silvio and his 
twin-sister, Rosina, Francesco and Marietta. Onorato, 
the father, was then employed in the post-office. According 
to all accounts he was a most excellent man, and his wife 
was one worthy of him. Her name was Tournier, and she 
came from Chambery in Savoy. She was a woman of 
distinguished character, with all the Savoyard virtues, first 
and last the devoted wife, the devoted mother whose jewels 
were her children, ever filled with tenderness and solicitude 
for them. 

Silvio Pellico was always proud of his humble birth, 



78 GEEAT PENITENTS 

proud of those parents who never lost their wonder to him. 
"J\ T o child/' he writes in "My Prisons/' "was ever more 
loaded with benefits by his father and mother than myself." 
A good description of that Christian home is given by one 
of his biographers : "Perfect purity of manners, hospitality 
never refused but always proffered, an uninterrupted exer- 
cise of Christian charity which recognized as a neighbor 
not only the Christian and the royalist, but everyone, and 
especially everyone who was unhappy, made the home in 
which Silvio was born and lived, a temple sacred to every 
social virtue." 

The queen who reigned over that home was especially 
dear to Silvio. Religious, as was also her husband, she, 
had moreover a simplicity, a courtesy, a modesty that help 
much to explain the later character of her famous son as 
suffering formed him. "When he speaks of his mother/' 
says his friend Maroncelli, "his soul is an incarnate, liv- 
ing hymn of adoration to God as manifested in His crea- 
tures." This tender love of Pellico for his mother was 
developed in a great measure by his years of absolute inde- 
pendence upon her. He was a weakling at birth, so much 
so that it was not considered possible that he would live 
long. His early years were one continued suffering where 
one sickness followed another. The doctors shook their 
heads dubiously ; he would never live to be seven. When 
he did reach his seventh year they prophesied that he 
would die before fourteen, and again when he passed that 
crisis that he was doomed to die at twenty-one. Evidently 
seven was not considered his lucky series. 

But the lad continued to live in spite of the doctors, 
even though life was to him a miserable thing, filled with 
melancholy thoughts and an overabundance of self-concen- 
tration. "Long sufferings," he writes, "long sadnesses op- 
pressed my early years. The children of my age ran and 
leaped around me, happy and proud of their beauty, but 
I was plunged in a mournful languor and afflicted with 



SILVIO PELLICO 79 

spasms the cause of which was a mystery. My short joys 
vanished before the pity which my frail and miserable 
nature inspired. I ran away to hide my tears in solitude." 
It was in those early years, indeed, that the first germs 
of doubt were lodged in his soul. One evening when he 
w r as very sick one of his young companions said to him: 
"Silvio, there is no God! God would be good and He 
would, not let you suffer so." The day came when his 
whole soul was to be poisoned with these sins against faith. 
But, it was no wonder that in the childhood days he re- 
garded death with indifference. It was a feeling he never 
lost. In later years he would say, "The most delightful 
day of my life will be that on which I die." Many a 
heavier cross he had to bear, however, before he found 
the peacefulness of death. 

When it came time for the boy to be put at his books, 
he and his elder brother studied together in their own 
home under the tutelage of a priest, Don Manavella, who 
prepared them for examination for admission to the public 
schools. Even in those early days the future dramatist 
displayed a passion for the theatre. His father would 
compose little plays and verses, and Silvio and his brother 
Luigi would get up on the family bureau and declaim 
them. The child is father to the man. Silvio attained 
great fame as a dramatist, and Luigi enjoyed a certain 
popularity as a writer of good comedies. In those days 
when the whole family loved play-acting it is not hard to 
credit the story that Silvio, chancing to read an Italian 
translation of the poems of Ossian, delivered himself of a 
Scottish tragedy at the age of ten ! 

It was about this time that the Pellico family came to 
live at Turin. The father had tried his luck at the manu- 
facturing of silk at Pinerolo, but the venture had not pros- 
pered, and he got another position with the government. 
Life for Silvio was not changed much by the change of 
dwelling. He and Luigi continued their studies under Don 



SO GREAT PENITENTS 

Manavella, and continued also their play-acting. More- 
over, these early days at Turin had more than a literary 
influence. Turin was then a republic. Onorato Pellico 
was at heart a monarchist, deeply attached to the royalist 
ideals then so violently attacked by the spirit of revolu- 
tion in France and Italy. He had suffered, indeed, for 
holding those ideals, since being known as of the king's 
party he had been obliged some time before to be a fugi- 
tive in the Alps accompanied by his wife, soon to become a 
mother, and by his little children. Thus early in life 
Silvio had learned the lesson of misfortune. In Turin he 
and his brother Luigi accompanied their father to the 
popular assemblies. There they received strong impres- 
sions about popular government and got that strong love 
of liberty which later was to be the cause of Silvio's im- 
prisonment. At Turin, too, he had his first and only love 
affair. One of his companions in acting was a girl, Car- 
lotinna, who died at the age of fourteen. It is too much, 
perhaps, to seek to find any influence from this childhood 
love affair in the life of the grown man, yet it is said that 
Silvio never forgot the love of his boyhood days. 

The day came all too soon when the boy, now grown to 
young manhood, put aside the simple Catholic life in 
which he had been trained and entered upon the course 
which finally led to the ruin of his soul. The change came 
about through the marriage of his twin-sister Eosina, who 
is said to have been as beautiful as an angel. A cousin of 
his mother's living at Lyons had obtained her hand in mar- 
riage. Silvio and his mother accompanied the young 
bride to Erance, and when the mother returned home 
Silvio decided to remain at Lyons, It was an evil decision 
for the youth, who was thus deprived of all the safeguards 
of home at the most impressionable time of life. Lyons 
worked the ruin of his innocence and his faith — he was to 
regret his life there with bitter tears. Filled with pride, 
and with no other god but his desires, his soul was an easy 



SILVIO PELLICO 81 

prey for the powers of irreligion. He was unfortunate 
enough to meet an apostate priest who was inclined to 
scepticism and went about preaching it. The impression- 
able Silvio was attracted to him, and through the associa- 
tion lost his respect for the religion in which he had been 
so carefully educated. He was never, however, a blatant 
unbeliever. There is question if he ever did really lose 
his faith, for as one of his biographers tells us, "sometimes 
the churches had for him a mysterious attraction. He 
fled from the impious gatherings, and solitary and discour- 
aged went to the churches and there prayed and meditated. 
He wept over his darkness, his doubts, his passions and 
the God he had lost." 

Silvio Pellico was to find that God again only on the 
way to Calvary. Just now he had no need of God. He was 
young, happy, surrounded by the many friends whom the 
gentleness of his manners won to him. He loved the world, 
especially this new French world which offered youth so 
many attractions. He loved France, French customs, 
French literature. He divided his time between the study 
of this literature and the pursuit of pleasure. Later on 
he deplored the irreligious doctrines he heard preached, 
the bad books he read, the hardening of his heart, the pride 
of his thoughts. Yet he also consoled himself with the 
thought that in Lyons he had seen the rebirth of Cathol- 
icism, which somehow was always a light shining for him 
in the midst of the darkness of his intellect. It would 
have been quite impossible for Pellico to get to the low 
level of the unbelieving Encyclopedist. 

So the youth spent four years in Lyons, thoroughly con- 
tent with himself, enjoying life to the full. And then 
one day in 1806 he chanced to read Foscolo's poem, 
"I Sepolcri." It was a voice from home. It made him 
Italian again, homesick, and under its spell he became sad, 
a dreamer. The French life he had thought so wonder- 
ful palled on him, and at once he determined to go back 



82 G E E A T PENITENTS 

home. The Pellico family was then living at Milan, where 
the father was employed in the war department and where 
Luigi w T as secretary to the Grand Equerry of the Kingdom 
of Italy. 

The home influence soon resumed its power over Silvio. 
Shortly after his return he was made professor of French 
in the college of military orphans, an easy position which 
required only an hour or two daily. The rest of his time 
he devoted without restraint to the cultivation of his poetic 
talent. His position in the college he soon lost, being 
removed by the Austrian government, but the removal did 
not distress him much since it gave him more leisure for his 
beloved literary work. This desire for literary fame was 
furthered by his friendship with the writer Foscolo, who 
was then one of the literary leaders of Italy, the others 
being Monti and Manzoni. Luigi Pellico had been a friend 
of Foscolo and thus Silvio was introduced to the great 
writer. The friendship between the two was a lasting one. 
Foscolo, who alienated his friends by his roughness, was 
always full of tenderness for Silvio, and on the other hand 
Silvio had for him a tender veneration. The two writers 
planned to form a literary partnership, Foscolo to do 
tragedies and Silvio rhymed stories. 

The literary association, however, was not lasting, owing 
to what would seem to us now a bit of professional jealousy 
on the part of Foscolo. Silvio had written a tragedy on 
the subject of Laodicea. Shortly after that he was so im- 
pressed with the acting of a young girl of twelve — after- 
wards the celebrated Carlotta Marchionni — that he com- 
posed for her his famous "Francesca Da Rimini." He 
submitted the tragedy to Foscolo, who after reading it told 
him to throw it into the fire and let Dante's dead rest in 
peace. Silvio then submitted to him his tragedy "Lao- 
dicea." Foscolo pronounced it beautiful, even lauded it 
to the skies. It may have been an error of taste, but we 
rather think it was the master's jealousy of his disciple. 



SILVIO PELLICO 83 

Anyway Pellico threw into the fire the "Laodicea" and not 
the "Francesca." It was the wisdom of the poet who 
knew the value of his own work, for it was "Francesca 
Da Rimini" that made Silvio's reputation when two or 
three years later, in 1819, it was played at Milan by Car- 
lotta, then an unrivaled actress. Silvio, however, enter- 
tained no enmity toward Foscolo on account of the biased 
criticism. Rather does he always speak of him with ten- 
derness, even while he sadly remarks that Foscolo "does 
not understand the consolations of the faith and has opened 
his strong intelligence to miserable doubts." 

A more worthy friend of Pellico's was the famous 
physicist, Volta. He was quite the opposite of Foscolo, 
being a fervent Catholic, and took every occasion to preach 
to his young friend Christian humility and the benefits 
of grace. Silvio in those years had his days of anger 
and revolt, and was very much inclined to satire. Volta 
fought against this disposition. "Poetry of anger bene- 
fits no one," said he. "If it happens that you feel angry and 
inclined to pour out your bile in verse, have the fear of 
becoming wicked. I would wish on the contrary that you 
would seek then to soften your heart by working on some 
noble example of charity and indulgence." Pellico fol- 
lowed the advice. He wrote a rhymed story, "Aroldo E 
Clara" in which a sister pardons her brother's murderer 
and persuades her father to do the same in the name of 
Jesus Christ. Silvio later on was to give in his own life 
a lasting lesson of forgiveness of injuries. Volta died in 
1826 when Silvio was yet in prison. Who knows how 
much the remembered advice of the great scientist con- 
tributed to the softening of the heart of the man who must 
have felt that the hand of the world was against him. 

Silvio had need of the lesson in those days, for he was 
soon to be tried by fire. Italy then was ground down under 
the heel of the oppressor. To the Napoleonic era had suc- 
ceeded the Austrian domination, and Vienna treated Lorn- 



S4 GEEAT PENITENTS 

bardy as a conquered country. Though the Pellico family 
had returned to Turin, Silvio remained at Milan, where he 
had charge of the education, first of the children of Count 
Briche and afterwards of the children of Count Porro 
Lambertenghi. Count Porro loved Silvio as a son and did 
all he could to advance him in the world. The association 
meant much to the young poet, for the Count's home was 
the meeting place not only of all the eminent men of Lom- 
bardy but even of all the illustrious strangers, from every 
nation, who came to visit Milan. Here Silvio met Madame 
de Stael, Schlegel, and especially Byron, then at the height 
of his fame, to whom Pellico refers as, "this surprising 
genius, who unhappily accustomed himself to deify now 
vice, now virtue, now error, now truth, but who was tor- 
mented, however, with a burning thirst for truth and vir- 
tue. " The friendship of the two poets was very close. 
Pellico translated "Manfred" into Italian and Byron trans- 
lated "Francesca Da Rimini" into English. 

They were happy days but Silvio's association in the 
house of Count Porro finally led to his imprisonment, It ' 
came about in this way: 

The Count was a thorough Italian patriot, one of the 
leading opponents of the Austrian domination. It was 
thus that the journal "II Conciliatore" was established. 
The idea very likely originated with Pellico. The reunion 
of so many of the intellectually elect inspired him with 
the idea of a paper which would serve as a forum for these 
men. The project appealed to Porro inasmuch as the 
journal which was to defend the romantic school as against 
the classicist would serve as a means to combat all foreign 
domination. 

So the association was formed. It met three times a 
week. Silvio was elected secretary. The paper was 
avowedly a purely literary one. No politics were allowed 
in it, for the eyes of Austria were very vigilant, so vigilant 
that even in the literary articles many passages were sup- 



SILVIO PELLICO 85 

pressed which were regarded as showing a tendency to 
think too much about liberty. Scarcely a number of the 
"Conciliatore" that was not mutilated by the censor. It 
was a busy time for Silvio, yet in addition to his work on 
the paper he had the intention of publishing by subscrip- 
tion a great history of Italy, and a society was formed with 
this object in view. But nothing came of it. His pen 
was busy otherwise, too. He wrote his second tragedy, 
"Eufemio Di Messina" on the subject of "Judith." It 
was considered by the censors, however, as having an inner 
political meaning, and they allowed it to be published only 
on condition that it never would be played. The tragedy 
never reached the stage. 

"II Conciliatore" did good work inasmuch as it brought 
about a renaissance in Italian art and letters; but it was 
necessarily doomed to failure. Owing to the many mutila- 
tions from the censor, it was soon little more than titles 
and signatures, and after existing a year it was given up. 
But Pellico's association with it was fraught with evil con- 
sequences. It made him suspect to the Austrian govern- 
ment and thus finally led to his downfall. The Revolution 
in Naples and in Piedmont had produced a great fermenta- 
tion in the Lombard and Venetian states. As a result the 
Italian army was disbanded, all political debate was sup- 
pressed, the press was silenced, and national industry para- 
lyzed. Out of the tyranny arose the secret societies, espe- 
cially the Carbonari, all of which aimed at the constitu- 
tional independence of upper Italy. This was the unset- 
tled state of affairs when the revolution of Piedmont and 
the Two Sicilies occurred. Austria was alarmed, and 
fulminated a decree against the Carbonari. By the decree 
of August 25, 1829, Article 53 declared for the death 
penalty for all who joined the society, and Articles 54 
and 55 declared for severe and most severe imprisonment 
for those who neglected to stop its progress or to denounce 
its members. Hence the editors of the "Conciliatore" were 



86 GREAT PEUITEUTS 

treated as Carbonari. Count Porro and others escaped the 
death penalty by fleeing the country. 

Silvio had gone to Turin to attend his dying friend, 
Breme. On his return to Milan he was told that the 
officers of the law were looking for him. "They know 
where I live/' said he; "I shall go and wait for them." 
He found them waiting for him. They took all his papers, 
poems, etc., and conducted him to the prison of Santa 
Margherita. It was October 13, 1820. 

Silvio Pellico did not belong to the Carbonari. He was 
not even in the secrets of the conspirators. He had written 
a letter making inquiries about the organization, giving 
his correspondent to understand that if his conscience per- 
mitted he would join. The letter had been intercepted. 
All; the others had fled, and Silvio, unsuspecting in his 
innocence, remained. But he must be found guilty at any 
cost. He must be the scapegoat ; and so he was condemned 
without even a trial. 

The prison of Santa Margherita, in the center of Milan, 
had once been a nunnery. When the nunnery was sup- 
pressed the building was used for the general office of the 
police. It had a long range of cells connected with it, 
some for criminals, some for unlicensed prostitutes, some 
for political prisoners. The cells were damp, so much 
so that the prisoners soon lost their hair ; they were dark, 
gloomy, fetid, comfortless, with all kinds of loathsome in- 
sects. They were fittingly called "Dante's Dens." It was 
there that Silvio for several days underwent an examina- 
tion. He tells the story of it in the book he wrote after- 
wards, the book which keeps his name in everlasting remem- 
brance, "My Prisons," one! of the classics of the world, 
"this book, of a simplicity so sweet and a tenderness so 
religious," the simple baring of a man's heart, the story 
of Christian resignation under ten years of suffering. 

"A century ago," he writes, "this was a monastery ; the 
holy and penitential virgins who dwelt here never imagined 



SILVIO PELLICO 87 

that at this day their cells would resound no more with 
the sighs of women and with pious hymns, but with blas- 
phemies and indecent songs, and would contain men of 
all kinds, the greater part destined to hard labor or to the 
gallows." 

He thought of home, and wept like a child, grieving as 
he regretted that he had not been more tender with his 
parents on his last visit to them. When he awoke in his 
prison cell he thought of them again. "Who will give 
them strength to bear the blow," he asked himself; and 
a voice within seemed to say, "He Whom all the afflicted 
invoke and love and feel within them! He Who gave 
strength to a mother to follow her Son to Golgotha, and 
to stand under His cross ! The Friend of the unhappy, the 
Friend of mortals." 

For years Silvio had been forgetful of God. He had 
put Him out of his life in the Lyons days when pride ruled 
his will. Xow God was knocking at the door of his heart. 
"This was the first moment," he writes, "that religion 
triumphed in my heart ; and I owed this blessing to filial 
love." He continues his confession: "Hitherto, without 
being hostile to religion, I had felt its influence but little 
and imperfectly. The common objections which are 
brought against it had not appeared to me of much weight, 
and yet a thousand sophistical doubts had weakened my 
faith. These doubts had not for a long time related to 
the existence of God ; and I had continually repeated to 
myself, 'If God exists, it necessarily follows from His 
justice that there is another life for man who suffers in a 
world so unjust, hence follows the great reasonableness 
of aspiring to the blessings of that second life; hence 
follows a worship consisting of love to God and our neigh- 
bor, a perpetual striving to ennoble ourselves by generous 
sacrifices.' I had for a long time gone on repeating all 
this, and I had added, 'And what is Christianity but this 
perpetual aspiration after perfection V And Christianity 



88 GEEAT PENITENTS 

in its essential character being so pure, so philosophical, 
so unimpeachable, I marveled that an age should have 
arrived when philosophy should dare to say, 'Henceforth 
I will fill its place.' 

" 'And in what manner wouldst thou fill its place ? 
Bv teaching vice V 

"'No, surely/ 

" 'By teaching virtue ? That will be the love of God 
and our neighbor. It will be precisely what Christianity 
teaches/ 

"Although I had thus felt for several years," he con- 
tinues, "I had avoided the conclusion, 'Be then consistent ! 
Be a Christian! Be no longer offended by abuses, no 
longer dwell perversely on some difficult doctrine of the 
Church, since the principal point is this, and it is most 
plain: Love God and your neighbor.' 

"In prison I determined at last to embrace this conclu- 
sion, and I did embrace it. I hesitated somewhat from 
the fear that if anyone should happen to learn that I was 
more religious than formerly he might think he had a 
right to consider me a fanatic, made abject by misfortune. 
But knowing that I was neither fanatical nor abject, I felt 
complacency in disregarding the possible blame I did not 
deserve ; and I resolved from that time forward to be and 
to avow myself a Christian." 

It was some time before this became his settled resolu- 
tion ; but once taken, he felt peace come into his heart. It 
was a time of trial; he was abandoned, deprived even of 
the materials with which to write. He tells us that in 
order to write a letter to his friend and fellow prisoner, 
Maroncelli, he pricked his finger and used the blood as ink. 
The old man who carried the letter was beaten mercilessly. 
Soon after he was permitted to have a Bible and a Dante, 
and to use the jailer's library. He began to love the Bible 
more and more. Meditation on the word of God gave him 
to understand what prayer was and he learned to put him- 
self in the presence of God. 



SILVIO P E L L I C O 89 

"This purpose of always considering myself in the pres- 
ence of God," lie writes, "instead of being a fatiguing 
effort of mind and exciting my fears, was delightful to me. 
By remembering that God is always near us, that He is 
in us, or rather that we are in Him, solitude became daily 
less terrible to me. 'Have I not the most excellent so- 
ciety?' I used to say. And I became cheerful; I sang 
and whistled w T ith pleasure and tender emotion." 

There came into his soul a strong faith that God would 
sustain him. Written on the wall of his cell by a previous 
occupant were these words: "I bless the prison, since it 
has made me know the ingratitude of men, my own misery, 
and the goodness of God." 

The soul of Silvio Pellico was a tender one. There is 
nothing in all literature more touching than his description 
of his friendship with the little deaf and dumb boy, the 
child of a criminal. Of like beauty is his tribute to the 
poor Magdalen whose voice he heard but whose face he 
never saw. In the room next to his were women prison- 
ers. One of them, Maddalena, never gave utterance as 
the others to vulgar thoughts. When her companions re- 
lated their troubles she pitied them and said : "Take cour- 
age, my dear; the Lord never forsakes anyone." "Inno- 
cence," writes Silvio, "is to be honored ; but how much is 
repentance to be honored also ! Did the best of men, the 
God-Man, disdain to cast His compassionate looks upon 
sinful women, to regard their confusion, and to associate 
them with the souls whom He most honored ? Why, then, 
should we so much despise a woman who has fallen into 
ignominy?" The voice of this penitent woman often 
cheered him. Often when he was tempted to hate the 
world her voice brought him back to compassion and in- 
dulgence. And he concludes beautifully: "Mayst thou, 
O unknown sinner, not have been condemned to a heavy 
punishment ! Or, to whatever punishment thou hast been 
condemned, mayst thou profit by it to recover thy worth, 
and to live and die dear to the Lord. Mayst thou be com- 



90 GEEAT PENITENTS 

passionated and respected by all who know thee, as thou 
hast been by me who know thee not ! Mayst thou inspire 
in everyone who sees thee patience, gentleness, the desire 
of virtue and trust in God, as thou hast in him who loves 
thee without having seen thee ! My fancy may err, when 
it paints thee beautiful in person, but I cannot doubt the 
beauty of thy soul. Thy companions spoke with coarse- 
ness, thou with modesty and courtesy; they blasphemed, 
and thou didst bless God ; they quarreled, and thou wert 
the composer of their strife. If anyone has taken thee by 
the hand, to withdraw thee from the career of dishonor; 
if he has conferred benefits on thee with delicacy; if he 
has dried thy tears, may all blessings be showered upon 
him, upon his children, and upon his children's children." 

All the while Silvio was learning to pray again, to re- 
new again his faith in God, by walking the way of the 
cross. 

On February 20, 1821, he was brought to Venice and 
confined in the state orison, The Leads, so called 
because the upper part of this former palace of the Doge 
was entirely covered with lead. He was subjected to a 
harrowing examination for hours, and then restored to 
his cell, so enraged by the injustice of it all that he would 
have committed suicide if the voice of religion and the 
recollection of his beloved ones at home had not restrained 
him. Again his faith weakened. He ceased to pray, be- 
gan to question the justice of God, and for six or seven 
days cursed the world and all mankind. "My Bible," 
said he, "was covered with dust. One of the jailer's boys 
said while caressing me: 'Since you have ceased to read 
that ugly book, you are much less melancholy, I think.' " 

He took up the Bible, wiped away the dust, and opened 
the book at random. He read the words (St. Luke XVII, 
1, 2) : "And he said to his disciples: It is impossible that 
scandals should not come: but woe to him through whom 
they come. It were better for him that a millstone were 



SILVIO PELLICO 91 

hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that 
he should scandalize one of these little ones." 

When the boy left the cell the man exclaimed: "And 
had I abandoned Thee, my God ? And had I become per- 
verted ? And could I believe that the infamous sneer of 
cynicism was suited to miy desperate situation?" He 
knelt to read the Bible. He burst into tears, and repented 
the evil he had done. He vowed he would never again lose 
his God. How little now seemed his affliction. Even 
the scaffold was small in comparison with God. Again 
and again he was assailed by temptations to unbelief, but 
by the grace of God he conquered them all. His suffer- 
ings in the prison cell were intense, the heat was terrific, 
the onslaughts of the innumerable insects maddening, but 
he resigned himself to all the afflictions. "And examin- 
ing myself with just rigor," he writes, "I found in the 
years I had lived only a few specious traits of character; 
all the rest was made up of foolish, idolatrous passions, 
proud and false virtues. 'It is well/ I con- 

cluded; suffer, unworthy man, suffer. If through pas- 
sions and without any right men and gnats should torment 
thee to death, acknowledge them as the instruments of di- 
vine justice, and be silent ! Does it need an effort for man 
to be sincerely humble? to be sensible that he is a sin- 
ner? without self-abasement, without the scruples of a 
fanatic, contemplating myself with all possible tranquility 
of mind, I perceived that I deserved the chastisements of 
God." 

The struggle to conquer himself was not over yet, how- 
ever. He busied himself with writing several tragedies 
and other poems. On May 29, 1821, he finished two 
tragedies, also four rhymed stories. Later, when he was 
leaving Italy, being removed to the prison of Spielberg, 
he asked permission to pass to his family the two tragedies 
as his literary testament. Permission was granted but 
nothing was done. The government was afraid the plays 



92 GEEAT PENITENTS 

would be published and thus bring honor to a man who 
was a criminal. They decided that even his name must 
perish. And all the while they were preparing, unwit- 
tingly, to make his name immortal. 

During those days Silvio meditated much, writing the 
meditations on his table and then scraping off the writing. 
He made verses, and prayed. Yet would the old tortures 
return to his mind. The temptation came to him to con- 
sider himself abandoned by God, and he yielded to the 
temptation. Pie denied the excellence of religion, even 
denied God. To this there succeeded a serious illness. 
His heart softened under it. He recovered, and his soul 
was filled with gratitude to God. He was now getting 
ready to die. "If the end of my life has arrived," he 
wrote, "am I not fortunate that it is in such a manner as 
to give me time to recollect myself, and to purify my con- 
science by holy desires and acts of penitence worthy of a 
man?" From that time on he meditated on death and 
the sacraments. 

From The Leads Silvio was removed to the prison of 
San Michele. There he was tried again, and condemned 
to the death penalty. At once the punishment was com- 
muted to fifteen years severe imprisonment in the fortress 
of Spielberg. To the reading of the sentence the prisoner 
simply answered, "The will of God be done," but back in 
his cell again the awfulness of his fate struck terror into 
his soul and again he put God out of his life. Spielberg, 
in Moravia, was the hardest prison of the Austrian gov- 
ernment. It was a terrible place to Silvio, never of robust 
health, now weak and suffering, his lungs affected by what 
he had endured in the Italian prisons. He burned with 
fever, his stomach revolted against the coarse fare; his 
feet were chained together, his bed but hard planks. Yet 
in the midst of the afflictions he composed a tragedy. He 
had no paper, no ink, but memorized the lines as he com- 
posed them. 

Count Antonio Oroboni, a young man twenty-nine years 



SILVIO PELLICO 93 

of age, one of Silvio's fellow prisoners, exercised a good 
influence upon him. The two prisoners became confidants. 
"Let us take advantage of the short time that has been 
granted us anew/' said Oroboni one day, "to console each 
other by religion. Let us speak of God; let us excite 
each other to love Him; let us remember that He is jus- 
tice, wisdom, goodness, beauty; that He is everything ex- 
cellent which has been the object of our love. I tell you 
that my death is not far distant. I shall be eternally grate- 
ful to you if you will contribute to make me as religious in 
these my last days as I ought to have been through life." 
So the two prisoners talked of religion, and prayed to- 
gether. Silvio was taken very ill. He sent for the chap- 
lain and made his confession, and prepared himself for 
death. But he did not die. Oroboni, however, died June 
13, 1823. His was a holy death, a blessing which might 
not have been his had he been permitted to pursue his life 
in the world. He deserves to be reckoned among the great 
penitents. Silvio had loved him devotedly and prayed 
earnestly for his soul. In his dreams he seemed to see the 
man redeemed to glory through the door of his prison cell. 

An Augustinian priest, Father Battista, was appointed 
confessor to the prison. Silvio lovingly calls him, "an 
angel of charity." The priest brought books to the pris- 
oners, visited them every month and heard their confes- 
sions. "Oh," says Silvio, "how unhappy is he who knows 
not the elevating influences of confession ! how unhappy is 
he who thinks himself bound to regard it with scorn, that 
he may not appear one of the vulgar!" The ministry of 
this good priest continued for a year, and then the authori- 
ties forbade him to come any more. During the years from 
1824 to 1827 a severer discipline was instituted. The 
prison was made a tomb, and the prisoners were deprived 
even of books. In 1825, however, a new confessor was 
allowed them in the person of Father Stephen Paulowich, 
who obtained for them the privilege of hearing Mass. 

To know the great reputation which Silvio Pellico en- 



94 GEEAT PENITENTS 

joyed in the world it is sufficient to know that when in 
1828 the news of his supposed death was given out there 
was profound sorrow everywhere. The world had the 
most sincere sympathy for the man it regarded as a martyr. 
But he was not destined to die in prison. In the Septem- 
ber of 1830 he was liberated. He piously attributed his 
release to the prayers of his baby sister, Marietta, who had 
become a nun and had died soon after her profession. He 
concludes "My Prisons" with these moving words: "And 
now, for my past misfortunes, and for my present happi- 
ness, as well as for all the good and ill which may be re- 
served for me, blessed be that Providence, in whose hands 
men and things, whether they will or will it not, are the 
wonderful instruments for accomplishing purposes worthy 
of their divine Author." 

What must have been the emotions of the man on re- 
turning to the home to which he had been as one dead for 
ten long years ! But he wasted no time in useless lamenta- 
tions ; there was nothing of the posing martyr about Silvio 
Pellico. On his return to Turin he took up again the 
thread of his literary work. His tragedy, "Ester D'En- 
gaddi," was played with success in 1831, but the produc- 
tion was soon stopped by the censors. A new tragedy 
met the same fate. He was still considered politically 
dangerous. His tragedy on the great Catholic, Thomas 
More, was to him a labor of love. He wrote eight trage- 
dies, but he was never a great success as a dramatist. Be- 
sides his dramas he wrote a dozen novels in verse, the 
subjects of which were taken from the Middle Ages. 
His unedited poems contain a paraphrase of the "Imita- 
tion," elegies on his youth, souvenirs of his past loves. 
Nearly all his poems have a religious ending. The most 
severe Italian critics consider his canzone on the sun, com- 
posed at Spielberg, perfect, "a jewel to be set in gold." 
"Shine on the face of the father," it runs, "shine on the 
face of the mother of this poor captive, and may thy joyous 



SILVIO. PELLIOO 95 

ray enchant their sorrow. But what matters where goes 
lamenting this abandoned spoil, if God has given me a 
soul which nothing here below can enchain ¥' 

But Silvio Pellico came not back to the world to seek 
literary fame. He wanted more than all else to serve 
God with his pen. So he wrote his "My Prisons" as well 
as "The Duties of Young Men" with the object of showing 
by precept and example the necessity of sufferings and ex- 
piation for the moral perfection of man. So he writes in 
his "Duties of Young Men/' an excellent treatise which 
might have been written by a master in the spiritual life : 
"Let us not be daunted by the weight of the obligations 
which are insupportable alone to the slothful, let us be of 
good will, and we shall discern in each duty a mysterious 
being inviting us to love it, we shall feel an admirable 
power augmenting our force in proportion as we ascend in 
the arduous way of virtue ; we shall find that man is vastly 
more than that which he seems to be, provided that he will, 
firmly will, to compass the noble end of his destiny, which 
is to purify himself from all base tendencies, to cultivate 
in the highest degree those of a superior order, to elevate 
himself by these means to the immortal possession of 
God." What a pity that the English translation of this 
excellent book is now out of print. It deserves a better 
fate. 

The other great prose work of Silvio Pellico is the book 
which has made his name famous — "My Prisons." Some 
time after his return to Turin he had selected as his spir- 
itual director an old priest of eighty years, Dom Giordano. 
After listening to Silvio's account of his experiences in 
prison he urged him to write them and give them to the 
world. Silvio hesitated. Even then there was too much 
political rancor in Italy and he did not wish to increase it 
by the account of what he had endured for a supposed po- 
litical crime. However, he spoke to his mother about it. 
She replied simply, "Let us pray over it." A few days 



96 GEEAT PENITENTS 

after that she asked him if he had prayed. He replied 
that he had, and that he felt the book of his experiences 
would do good. 

The book was soon written. Needless to say it met with 
great success. It stirred up some criticism, too. Some 
accused the writer of too much bitterness, others of too 
much leniency because he was so forgiving. Some would 
have had him make political capital of his sufferings. But 
such a plan was furthest from his mind. Indeed — and 
that is the tragedy of his punishment — Silvio Pellico was 
never a politician. He suffered because of his friends 
rather than for what he himself had done. Hence he was 
very indifferent to politics after his release from jail. He 
was reproached bitterly for the indifference, but the re- 
proaches could not disturb the serenity of his soul. He 
had found the pearl of great price. The book w 7 as criti- 
cised on other scores. The Protestants charged the author 
with having attacked the divine nature and truth. Many 
Catholics also found fault with it because of the "addi- 
tions" made to the book by Maroncelli who was a very 
different man from Silvio. But no one regretted the addi- 
tions and the "Life" by Maroncelli more than Silvio him- 
self. He protested that Maroncelli had put forth many 
propositions of which he could not approve. It is a pity 
that Maroncelli is still allowed to glorify himself by asso- 
ciating himself so intimately with the man who was so 
immeasurably superior to him. Eor "My Prisons" is a 
great book, simple, true. It is that which makes it im- 
mortal. Silvio Pellico, after all, was not a great writer, 
but he was a human writer. In all his works the ruling 
sentiments are family love, love of country, love of man, 
love of children especially, and love of God. It is said that 
"My Prisons" did more harm to Austria than any military 
defeat. 

One effect of the book was to gain for Silvio the friend- 
ship of the Marchesa di Barolo, the reformer of the Turin 



SILVIO PELLICO 97 

prisons. In 1834 he accepted from her generosity a 
yearly pension of three hundred dollars. It was a lasting 
friendship. On the death of his parents in 1838 he went 
to live at the Casa Barolo, and there he remained till his 
death, assisting the Marchesa in her charities and writing 
on religions subjects. The library of the Casa Barolo 
was to him a happy retreat. He had come from the prison 
broken in health. It was a wonder that one always so 
weak had borne the burdens of prison life so well. Those 
who looked at him, small of stature, continually ill, mar- 
veled that such a one was regarded as a conspirator ; they 
wondered that the very sight of him had not disarmed sus- 
picion. 

But Silvio Pellico did no whining about what he had 
endured. He had no bitterness against the prison, simply 
because it was there he had found his Ood. All else was 
insignificant beside that fact. He renounced the world, 
letters, fame. He gave up writing for the theatre, gave 
up writing romances. All was spiritual now. The illu- 
sions of his youth about fame were gone. He had no de- 
sire but to come to peace in serving God. His first occu- 
pation was prayer, then the reading of books of piety, 
especially the most ascetic. He loved to converse about 
such books; he became more and more mystic. He was 
religious first, and literary only secondly. "I often have 
need," said he, "to make verses in order to pray; thus 
now is produced an ode, now an elegy, where I spread my 
soul before God, and it is enough for me to restore seren- 
ity." "Pray God for me," he asked of everybody he met. 
He had but to think of death. "There is for him," wrote 
the Marchesa, "only the thought of God and eternity." 

Silvio's life toward the end was serene. He taught 
French and Italian in a convent school, composed little 
plays and canticles for the students. He went to the 
church a great deal, never into the social world. All of 
his family died before him with the exception of a brother 



98 GEEAT PENITENTS 

who had become a Jesuit, and a sister, both noted for their 
piety. The world held little for him now. February 14, 
1839, he wrote to his friend Arrivabene: "I write little; 
my health is always very bad, and I would say to you that 
I am tired of life were it not that I know that one should 
never say he is tired of carrying a gift we hold from God, 
and that one should rather arm himself unceasingly with 
sweet patience and courage and bless life as death. Let 
us suffer then with the smile and the strength of soul He 
demands: the years flee with such rapidity that to find 
their sufferings long would be truly foolish." 

Again in 1844 Silvio wrote to the same friend: "Let us 
bless God in our consolations and in our sufferings, and 
let us go forward with love." It pained him to be useless, 
he wrote, but he found consolation in the thought that the 
number of useless beings is infinite. He admitted that he 
was always suffering, but, he concluded, "Patience and 
courage to the end! Let us adore the will of God and 
trust in His goodness." 

So passed these years of prayer, of atonement for sin, 
of deep repentance in sweetness and gentleness. On Janu- 
ary 31, 1854, Silvio felt that he was going to die. He sent 
for his confessor and received him with a smile. "Father," 
said he, "I feel that I am going. In two or three hours I 
shall be in Paradise. If I have sinned, I have expiated. 
When I wrote 'My Prisons' I sometimes had the vanity to 
believe myself a great man, which was untrue, and I have 
repented of that all my life." Then with a loud voice, 
with a face peaceful and even gay, he read the prayers of 
the agonizing. When the priest had finished reading he 
looked at Silvio. He was dead. All his prison days were 
over. 



PAUL FEVAL 

SOME time ago I chanced to pick up in a second- 
hand bookstore an historical romance — Les Deux 
Femmes du Roi — by Paul Feval. It was only 
necessary to read a few pages to discover that the romancer 
was far from being a clerical. "The Popes/' he wrote, 
"fomented revolt. The Popes are the fathers of the Revo- 
lution. ... In crying out to the people — to obey is 
a crime — the Popes, imprudent, dug the abyss at the edge 
of which totters their own throne. They committed the 
greatest of all the social crimes. " This romance bore the 
date of 1865. But what a familiarly modern ring it has ! 
How like to the violent talk of the anti-clericals of our own 
times, whom the great war happily has silenced, for a w 7 hile 
at least. 

But the day came when Paul Feval blotted out these 
w T ords and many like them with his penitent tears. In all 
his long literary career he never wrote such a thrilling ro- 
mance as his own life was in reality, a poor boy who at- 
tained great wealth and fame, wandered far from God, 
lost all faith, and at last by the loss of all his worldly 
wealth got the grace to see the true value of things and 
returned a humble penitent to the foot of the Cross. Paul 
Feval in his day was a "best-seller." Much of his glory 
is departed, as realism has taken the place of romance. 
Most of the books which he turned out with such incredible 
speed are now forgotten. But the true glory of the man 
remains in the ardor with which he defended the recovered 
faith of his childhood and in the untiring zeal with which 
he labored to correct his books and undo the harm his pen 

99 



100 GEEAT PENITENTS 

had done in the many years of his religious indifference. 
Feval is a shining example of true repentance. 

Paul Henri Corentin Feval was born September 29, 
1817, at Eennes in Brittany. He was always a thorough 
Breton, and a great deal of his best work deals with the 
history, the legends of his native province. "They 
sometimes ask me, my dear good mother," he 
writes in his wonderfully beautiful dedication of Le 
Comte Barbebleu, "why I am always speaking of Brittany, 
and why the name of Eennes so often escapes my pen. It 
is because you are at Eennes, and with you all that I love. 
I speak of Brittany and Eennes, because I am thinking 
always of thee, because my heart is with thee, and because 
in talking of Eennes and Brittany I seem talking of thee 
or to thee. I send thee this book, and if it gives you some 
pleasant hours, it will be my great success." The Fevals 
were an old family of lawyers. Paul's father was a 
lawyer, a learned man, a counsellor at the royal court. 
He was, however, very humble and very pious. When 
Paul, after his conversion, wrote his most beautiful 
book — "Les Etapes d'une Conversion" — he painted the 
portrait of his father who had died in 1827 when Paul 
was a lad of ten. It is the picture of a wonderfully holy 
man, and it was a sad day for the boy when he was de- 
prived of the guiding hand of the saintly parent. He 
made his First Communion ; it was his last for many years, 
until the time of his conversion back to God. 

Paul Feval was not a very promising youngster. He 
was weak and sickly, something of the coddled and spoiled 
child, with an inclination to make fun of others. That 
habit made him very unpopular with his teachers and his 
fellows in school, and many a good beating he got for his 
mean disposition. In those early days at school all he 
cared for was play, giving very little evidence of a taste 
for books, and absolutely no indication of the talent which 
later was to bring him fame and fortune. He was stub- 



PAUL FEVAL 101 

born. An example of that was given when he was thirteen 
years of age, at the time of the Revolution of July. His 
teachers and fellow students wore the tricolor, but Paul, 
no doubt from sheer perversity, wore the white cockade. 
He was whipped again and again for his obstinacy, but 
he still stuck to the wdiite. His school days thus were not 
a great success and finally his mother took him out of class 
and brought him to live with her in an old manor belonging 
to a member of the family. The neighborhood w y as the 
rendezvous of conspirators, and the mysteries, the dangers 
that surrounded them went a great way towards the de- 
velopment of the spirit that w T as to make of the lad one 
of the great romancers of his age. He was filled with 
warlike desires, of which the struggle to hold fast to the 
white cockade was perhaps a manifestation. Anyway, 
these youthful experiences, while they did not make a sol- 
dier of him, laid the foundation of his literary success, for 
when he came to write he found his materials ready in the 
old traditions, the old legends to which he had listened 
at the big fireplace and later pondered over as he lay in 
bed, his hair standing on end. 

Feval entered the college of Rennes in 1831 and re- 
mained there two years. He did not accomplish much as 
a student. He was the same weak, sickly boy, with a 
mean disposition, always teasing his companions and get- 
ting many a good beating that did not, however, reform 
him. And all the while there was the growing indifference 
in religion. The good mother thought it time to choose 
a career for him. She insisted on making a lawyer of him 
since that was the family tradition. Paul was not keen 
about it, in fact he did not know what he wanted ; he had 
no ambition. It was a problem for the mother how to 
manage the finances. She was poor through the death of 
her husband, but a relative of the Pevals sent her three 
thousand francs to pay for the legal education of the boy, 
and at once he was sent to the University of Rennes to 



102 GREAT PENITENTS 

prepare for admission to the bar. It was the same story, 
lack of interest in his studies, but at any rate he succeeded 
in obtaining his degree and was admitted to the bar at 
the age of nineteen. 

He was not cut out for a lawyer; he had no oratorical 
talent. His first case was to defend a peasant who had 
been accused of stealing a dozen chickens. It was the 
young lawyer's great opportunity and he was determined to 
make a lasting impression on the judges. He prepared 
very carefully according to his college exemplars of the 
great orations of Demosthenes. When he arose to speak 
he launched out into a solemn oration in defence of the 
chicken-stealer, and with such pomposity that even the 
judges burst into laughter. To make matters worse, the 
presiding judge asked the culprit what he had to say in his 
own defence and the poor thief gave a dissertation on the 
art of stealing chickens while preventing them from mak- 
ing any outcry. Needless to say he was condemned, and 
Feval lost his first case. The young lawyer was disgusted, 
ashamed of the manner in which he had humiliated him- 
self, and he left the court determined never to enter it 
again. He wanted no part of the law. He left home at 
once and went to Paris with the intention of making his 
living by writing, though up to that time he had discovered 
no special talent in that line. 

Meanwhile, to keep himself from starving while he was 
getting ready for his literary career, he got a position in a 
bank as a clerk. He did not last there very long. He neg- 
lected his work and devoted most of his time to the reading 
of novels. The climax came one day when his employer 
came upon him while he was deeply interested in a novel. 
It was one of Balzac's, one in which bankers were satirized. 
Feval was ignobly dismissed, and had to face the world 
again with only a few louis in his pocket. 

He would have to be an author now, he decided, and he 



PAUL FEVAL 103 

bought a ream of paper and a bottle of ink and began — 
nothing less than a tragedy. The only thing lie accom- 
plished was to lessen the number of louis. One of his 
good friends came along then and borrowed all that re- 
mained of his fortune. Paul waited for a while and then 
demanded that the loan be paid. Arguments followed ; the 
two friends fought it out and Paul wounded his adversary 
without, however, getting his money back. He was in a 
bad way, without a cent in his pocket and pretty close to 
starvation. Some of his former fellow students at the uni- 
versity came to his aid and gave him a lodging with them. 
It was a charming life he led for nine or ten months, sup- 
ported by others while he continued the tragedy which 
he hoped would give him entree to the literary world of 
Paris. 

When it came time for his friends to go home for vaca- 
tion the five acts were finished and in addition to the 
tragedy he found himself possessed of reams of poetry and 
other literary baggage. It was one thing to write, it was 
another thing to buy bread with verses. He could not 
sell his wares. No one would even read the tragedy from 
an unknown author. In desperation he decided that he 
most do something for a living. What seemed a fine oppor- 
tunity came with the offer from an absolute stranger to 
start a journal provided, of course, that Paul would fur- 
nish the funds. The gullible youth succeeded in borrow- 
ing four hundred francs from his sister as his contribution 
to the capital. The eager partner took it all and Paul 
once more was penniless and jobless. Shortly after this 
business failure we find him working with an advertising 
concern of bill posters, but not a cent did he receive from 
his work. 

He tried job after job, but he was a miserable failure at 
everything. He had to sell his watch, his clothes, his books 
to get enough to eat. He would not go back home. He 



104 GEEAT PENITENTS 

was too proud to admit that he was a failure. He lived 
in a mean attic, hungry, his only possessions the cherished 
manuscripts which later were to bring him fame and for- 
tune but which now were worse than waste paper. He 
was actually dying of hunger in his attic room when some 
of the neighbors, noting his long absence, broke into the 
room and found him lying unconscious on the bed. By his 
side, strange to say, was the only one of his books he could 
not bear to sell — an "Imitation of Christ!" 

The good neighbors, full of pity for him, helped him, 
and he soon succeeded in getting employment as a proof 
reader in the office of Le Nouvelliste. Gradually the op- 
portunity came for him to slip in his own articles. His 
talent was recognized and he received small orders for 
articles, for material for the vaudeville stage, while 
he continued at the work he liked best, that of writing 
romances. The real beginning of his literary career was 
with the publication of a short story, Le Club des Phoques, 
which, appearing in no less a paper than the Revue de 
Paris, attracted considerable attention, gave him a name 
and thus opened to him the columns of the most important 
papers. 

Meanwhile Feval had married the girl whose devotion 
had saved him when he had been discovered dying of 
starvation, the pious, devoted wife who in God's good 
time by her incessant prayers was to win him back to his 
Breton faith. But he was still far away from that day. 
Success in life was to increase his indifference to religion. 
As he wrote later in his preface to his wonderful book — 
"Jesuits!" — "When I came up from my province, I fell 
into the midst of sparkling scepticism where the eyes were 
dazzled by incessant flashes of wit. My charmmg com- 
panions were engaged in publishing newspapers or in 
managing theatres. I was still young in literature. I 
ran wildly about after popular success, and I won it to a 
degree. I had my day like another, in the society of my 



PAUL FEVAL 105 

associates and friends, Alexandre Dumas, Balzac, Fred- 
erick Soulie, Eugene Sue." 

Feval came into great literary prominence with the 
publication of his "Mysteres de Londres" in 1844. Sue 
had won great success with the "Mysteres de Paris" and a 
rival house of publishers decided that the mysteries of 
London should prove as popular as those of Paris. The 
talent of young Feval was very promising. Why not get 
him to do the work. But Feval protested that he had never 
been in London, knew nothing about England. But, pro- 
tested the publishers, that was not necessary to make a 
popular novel. Let him take one of his romances, change 
the locale, give the characters English names and behold 
the thing was done. He could go to London afterwards. 
Thus the "Mysteres de Londres" was written. It was the 
story of an Irishman who tried to avenge his country's 
wrongs by seeking the annihilation of England. It was a 
book after the school of Dumas and Sue. To give the book 
vraiseniblance the author was put down as one "Sir Francis 
Trolopp." Modern methods of booming literary wares 
were in vogue then. The new novel was advertised un- 
sparingly and met with a wonderfully popular success, 
so popular that it was translated into many languages. 

Paul Feval had arrived. The wise publishers took 
advantage of his success. The famous author was sent to 
London in royal style, accompanied by secretaries and 
servants, in order to study conditions there and get mate- 
rial for more mysteries. The distinguished visitor met 
with a very flattering reception. He was received every- 
where and treated as the lion of the hour. A whole police 
force was placed at his command to protect him in his 
investigations in the underworld of London. The public 
was gullible even in those days. Paul Feval must have 
grinned to himself as he contrasted his present state of 
magnificence with the sordid garret of a few years back. 
And how superior he felt to the poor unintellectual things 



106 GKEAT PENITENTS 

of religion! Religion was an excellent thing for his 
mother, his wife, but not even worthy of consideration on 
the part of the maker of best-sellers. 

The "Mysteres de Londres" was followed by "Amours 
de Paris." The walls of Paris were placarded with adver- 
tisements of the book, and soon the name of Paul Feval 
became a household word. He had really struck a gold 
mine with his popular, somewhat lurid, romances. It may 
have been a wasting of talent, as Eugene de Mirecourt in 
1856 called it, but Feval did not worry about that. He 
had come into his own, and by his own he meant money, 
and notoriety. He was able now by his royalties to live 
like a lord, gave splendid entertainments, had his salon and 
drove the best of horses. And with every year the wealth 
and fame increased. 

It would be impossible to follow out in detail the literary 
history of Feval. He was well called by de Mirecourt a 
"literary locomotive." He had a facile pen — too facile, 
indeed — and sometimes published four novels at once. De 
Mirecourt wrote : "If the house Alexandre Dumas & Co. 
had interrupted the course of its commercial operations, 
the writer, still young (1856) whose life this notice is 
going to retrace would have been able by himself alone and 
with no help from the pens of others, to supply a good part 
of the clientele of this immense factory of romances." 
And de Mirecourt ended his notice by saying — "We do not 
fear to speak of him with entire freedom, and with the 
certainty that sooner or later he will take a shining re- 
venge." The revenge which Feval was to take on himself 
for his sensational fiction was a long way off, and it was to 
be very different from that expected by de Mirecourt. It 
seems almost incredible, but it is a fact that in a period of 
thirty-five years, up to the time of his conversion in 1876, 
Feval had published one hundred and three novels and 
dramas. From that time to his death in 1887 he wrote 
some twenty more books, making a total of one hundred 



PAUL FEVAL 107 

and twenty-three, besides innumerable articles not repub- 
lished. He had tried his hand at the drama but only one 
of his plays met with success — Le Bossu — dramatized from 
one of his novels in 1863. Sardou collaborated with him 
in making the play, which may explain its tremendous 
success. This then was the life of Paul Feval for many 
years. It was not a life of crime, though he wrote much 
about crime and thus exercised an evil influence on the 
minds of his readers, an evil which he happily came to 
realize. His works never were indecent, he never could 
have written the immoralities of the realistic school. Yet 
for all that he was far from being an uplifting writer. He 
was the flippant, sure-of-himself novelist, conscious of his 
superiority, quite above the things of religion and hence 
sure to say in his books many things that were not in con- 
formity with the teachings of the Church. So we find 
him on the eve of his conversion a wealthy, popular author, 
a pagan romancer who long ago had put God out of his life. 
He w r as a sinner, and what made his lot all the worse was 
that in the pride of his heart he was unable to realize 
his miserable condition. It needed a blow from God to 
make him open his eyes. 

The blow came in this way : Paul Feval had made a great 
deal of money by his pen. He was really wealthy, and to 
insure the future of his wife and eight children had 
thought to increase his fortune by investment. He had put 
all that he owned into Ottoman Bonds, which had promised 
an especially high rate of interest. But the foreign se- 
curity failed and Feval saw the earnings of a lifetime 
swept away and at a time — he was then sixty years old — 
when it was impossible to build up another fortune. He 
was ruined. The news was overwhelming. For years 
he had had an income of fifteen thousand dollars a year, 
which had enabled him to live in the greatest luxury, and 
to send his children to the most exclusive and most ex- 
pensive schools. The day the bad news came he was sitting 



108 GEE AT PENITENTS 

in his study, while his wife and children, six of them, 
just home from school for the mid-day meal, waited for him 
to join them. The wife finally went to call him and found 
him in deep despair. She was a sweet, gentle woman, 
with steadfast faith in God. He blurted out the story of 
his bankruptcy and she turned pale at the news, her first 
thought being for the future of the children and the effect 
which this ruin of fortune must have on them. "Nothing 
remains," said he sadly. 

"My dear/' said the woman, "God remains to us. If 
He chastises us it is because He loves us." 

"What !" he exclaimed. "God loves me ?" He thought 
it a poor way in which God had shown His love. 

"Will you pray with me?" she asked simply. 

He assented and mechanically he said with her the Our 
Father, the Hail Mary and the Hail Holy Queen. She 
kissed him and together they went down to lunch. 

"O father !" said one of the little girls, "you make a face 
just like I make when I am going to cry." Feval surely 
had reason to cry. 

When the children had gone to school the wife said to 
Feval, "There is a God who sees the wound of your heart." 
But Paul was unmoved. His heart was not open to con- 
solation. As he said afterwards : "I was living according 
to the law of God, yet without preoccupying myself about 
God, at the door of the sanctuary but outside. This posi- 
tion is of all others the most perilous, because it is not open 
to remorse. I was quite at ease there outside God, nothing 
tempted me to enter in, and this peccable indifference is 
like an untroubled sleep — the last hour may awaken it, 
indeed, but who can answer for his last hour? Indiffer- 
ence in itself may be, and often is, the most certain of 
condemnations/' 

In despair he turned to his wife. "What would you 
do in my place ?" he asked. 

"In your place," said she, "I should go to confession." 






PAUL FEVAL 109 

That had been her life-long prayer, for his conversion, 
and he knew it. He knew how far he had fallen from 
God. 

He remembered his saintly parents and how his mother 
had prayed for him to make his peace with God. He used 
to tell how once when he was in trouble he did not dare go 
home, knowing that there he should hear only of God. And 
he who was the rival of Dumas, Hugo, Flaubert, with his 
books translated into twenty different languages was not to 
be bothered with inanities about religion. He remembered 
his saintly elder brother of wdiom he writes so beautifully 
in "The Steps of a Conversion/' but religion was all right 
in its place, it had no place in the life of a popular author. 
Feval knew that there was no chance in literature for a 
practical Catholic. Novels must be unclean — happily he 
had not pandered to the underworld — or at least they 
must be in harmony with the times, that is with nothing 
to disturb the religious indifference of the readers. Hence 
the very mention of confession was objectionable to Feval, 
who knew that to earn his daily bread he must still retain 
his appeal to the popular ear. In his despair as he planned 
for the future it seemed to him that there was but one 
thing for him to do. His future novels must take the 
modern note, must be realistic, must make an appeal to 
pruriency. The temptation was alluring but, perhaps with 
a thought to his wife and children, he rejected the temp- 
tation to write immoral books. No doubt that was the 
decisive moment in his conversion. At any rate he de- 
cided to consult a priest even though he had no notion of 
going to confession. He went to see a Jesuit, the profes- 
sor to one of his sons, and confessor of his wife, and 
told him about the financial ruin that had come to him. 

Toward the end of the conversation the priest said to 
him — "Tell me the story of your First Communion; you 
have often promised to do so." 

"Oh, not now, Father," said Feval, "it is too late ; see, 



110 G E E A T PENITENTS 

it is nearly our dinner hour and I have eaten nothing 
today." 

"Nevertheless, stay with me/' insisted the priest, "you 
shall have something to eat here." 

"Nonsense/' said Feval. But the priest insisted. 

"I am a prisoner, am I V 9 asked Feval, smiling, as he 
moved toward the door. 

And the priest, his hand on the door, suddenly ex- 
claimed, "The hour is past and gone ! Let me clasp your 
hand, at least, for if you go now, you will never return. 
I have prayed to your dead and they have not heard me." 
And he continued after a while, "I was wrong to ask for 
the story of your past life. I knew it already." Feval 
declared that impossible, and he turned back, memories 
of the past coming back to him, to ask how the priest knew. 
The priest told him where he had got his information. "Her 
name is Mother St. Charles, but in the w T orld she was called 
Clemena Loirier." 

Clemena Loirier had been engaged to Feval's brother 
Charles, but Charles, on account of the family cares which 
had come to him on the death of his father, had never 
married. Clemena entered the convent. At the sound of 
the beloved names and the memories they recalled Feval 
burst into tears. The priest held a crucifix before him. 
"Behold your God of love !" he said, "the God of sacri- 
fice. Behold the God of Charles, whom Charles sought to 
imitate. My son, go down on your knees !" 

"I did not kneel," said Feval, "I fell down, with a 
great sigh of relief as if a burden was being lifted from 
me." And the priest simply pointed to the prie-dieu. 

Feval repeated the Confiteor after the priest; it was 
so long since he had said it, he had forgotten it entirely. 
"My son," said the priest, "you cannot yet make your 
confession, but tell me now that you give yourself to God 
with all your heart." And simply, as a child, as the prodi- 
gal son he was, Feval answered, "With all my heart I de- 



PAUL FEVAL 111 

sire to belong to God, Father." A wonderful joy surged 
into his soul. He left the house, his heart singing, while 
he heard the priest, whom he had just left, chanting the 
Te Deum in gratitude to God for the return of the lost 
sheep. "I love God," Feval kept repeating to himself, 
"I will love Him." He hurried home as if on wings, and 
fell into his wife's arms. "It is done," said he, "I love 
God. I belong to Him." 

"What a contrast," he wrote, "between this night and 
the preceding one ! I had Jesus reconciled at my bed- 
side and I confided to Him, with serene faith, the future 
of our children. I cannot call myself resigned, for resig- 
nation presupposes a struggle, and I had no struggle, 
nothing but a supernatural calm." 

Feval made his confession, a confession of a life that 
had done without God for fifty years. Peace came to 
his soul and his heart overflowed with joy as he received 
the Bread of Life, his second Holy Communion. The old 
life was dead. After his reconciliation with God he took 
up the manuscript of an unfinished novel and wrote as 
follows : "This unfinished page is written by my other 
self, it seems to me a hundred years ago. I cannot finish 
it." Feval in those moments of conversion lived a greater 
romance than any of those he had written. 

The "penitent-romancer" as he has been called had but 
one thought — to repair the evil which he believed his 
writings had done. He felt that his future life must be 
one of reparation. It was a practical penance he did by 
working at the revision of his published works, which, as 
we have said, numbered at that time more than a hundred. 
"It is necessary," said he, "that all those pages disappear 
— all ! God will permit me to live to convert them as I 
am converted myself." So he worked untiringly in the 
preparation of new editions of his books, eliminating ob- 
jectionable passages. His friends remonstrated with him 
at undertaking a work of such magnitude. But he re- 



112 GEE AT PENITENTS 

plied: "What is the work, the pain? All is nothing 
when one searches into his life, when he reviews his 
life and retraces his steps. There is no longer question 
of believing, or even of practising, but of repairing. Faith 
does not suffice, one must have works." 

Feval surely knew the meaning of true repentance. He 
had more than the pain of reparation to endure. Once his 
conversion became known he was slighted and sneered at 
by many of his former friends and admirers. But far 
from letting that disconcert him he bore it all cheerfully. 
One of his former friends said to him one day, "Well, I 
am hardly surprised, for you are a Breton, and that ex- 
plains it. You have an archaeological heart, attracted by 
the things of the past, and you cling to your Ancient God 
as you do to your ancient King, but at all events you will 
never fall so low as to believe in La Salette and Lourdes, 
and what they call the Sacred Heart." 

Feval in those days had never even heard of La Salette 
or Lourdes, which shows how far removed from Catholic 
thinking he was. He asked his wife about them, and she 
told him simply the story of them, giving him a picture of 
the Mater Dolorosa, weeping over France. "There," said 
she, "it is that!" From that time on the convert became 
devoted to both La Salette and Lourdes. Also, he devel- 
oped a great devotion to the Sacred Heart. To manifest it 
he went on a parish pilgrimage to the provisional Chapel 
built in honor of the Sacred Heart at Montmartre prepara- 
tory to the erection of the great basilica toward which he 
was to contribute so much by his pen and his alms. His 
eyes were wet w T ith tears. The chaplain to whom he 
was introduced asked him to write an account of the pil- 
grimage for a Catholic paper. Feval gladly performed 
the task, and signing his name to the article thus an- 
nounced to the world that he was a practical Catholic. 

That was the beginning of his constructive work of writ- 
ing in defense of the faith. He became for the next ten 



PAUL FEVAL 113 

years the Knight of Catholicism. He wished to write 
only for God. "If yon knew/' said he, "how sweet it is 
to pray and to think of nothing but the love of God, when 
one has spent his life celebrating the profane love of men/' 
One thing that especially appealed to him was the erection 
of the basilica on Montmartre. Toward this project he 
was generous, on one occasion giving the proceeds of one 
of his most successful pamphlets, which amounted to some 
seventy thousand francs. In fact one form his penance 
took was that of giving alms. The first fruits of every 
payment he received were devoted to charity. He even 
refused to benefit by the sale of any of his re-edited 
works lest his repentance might bring him any material 
gain, but gave all the profits to the poor. 

After the death of his devoted wife Feval went to live 
in a small house near his beloved church of the Sacred 
Heart on Montmartre, for which he had written such elo- 
quent appeals. This church was his joy and his life and 
he wanted to be near it. So he took this little house at 
the foot of the hill, near the church, but not too near since 
he humbly believed that he was not holy enough to ap- 
proach the holy place too closely. In this humble dwelling 
he worked at his writing, at new books and at the revision 
of the old. It was there he received such friends as Louis 
Veuillot. Once he said to a friend who expressed aston- 
ishment at this hermit's life: "Oh, I know well that 
everybody cannot make a hermit of himself like this. 
Only — listen! You also ought to convert yourself. I 
assure you that God loves you. Adieu! But adieu in 
two words — A Dieu." 

All his remaining years were for Feval a life of peni- 
tential prayer. His joy was to climb the hill to the church. 
It was not an easy task. He was old and unwell and it 
took him fifteen minutes to reach the church where his 
soul found such inspiration. "Yes," said he, "the road 
is rough, but less rough than the approach to Calvary. 



114 GEEAT PENITENTS 

It is the too weak expiation due to my God by the author 
of such deplorable writings. " 

"But God does not require one to kill himself," said 
a commiserating friend. 

"God," replied the old penitent, "demands that I do 
my duty, and not that I should live." 

But live Feval did to atone for his past indifference by 
writing noble defences of things Catholic, of the Jesuits, 
the priesthood, of his beloved Sacred Heart. One of his 
greatest works of apologetics was the sketch book, as it 
may be called, which he entitled, "Jesuits!" The book 
created somewhat of a sensation. Feval defending the 
Jesuits ! Father Galivly translating the book prefaced his 
offering by saying: "Feval, until lately, was not what 
would be called a clerical — far from it. As he himself 
says, he was an intimate friend of Eugene Sue, and his 
first connection with the Jesuit controversy was as an 
antagonist of the Society." The American reviewer of 
this book in the Catholic World of February, 1879, wrote 
in this wise — which shows how strange Feval appeared as 
an apologist of the Church: 

"Paul Feval is scarcely the man we should look to for 
a defence of the Jesuits or for a defence of anything that 
is especially worth defending. M. Feval is best known 
as a fairly successful writer of the customary French 
novel, and the customary French novel is worth very 
little, indeed. The same sprightliness of style and fancy, 
the same play of wit and conceit that once he used on the 
side of evil, or of very doubtful morality, he now, in his 
old age employs in defence of a worthy cause. . . . There 
is force; historical research, eloquence; there are all the 
gifts of an accomplished writer bent upon accomplishing a 
serious purpose." 

The review is interesting as showing how Catholics re- 
garded Feval in his unregenerate days, and as indicative 
of the courage required of the penitent to come out in de- 



PAUL FEVAL 115 

fence of what he had once derided or ignored. In the 
preface to " Jesuits !" he writes the apologia of his return 
to God. He tells of his first interest in the Jesuits when 
he was a young writer to whom popularity had come. 
"Eugene Sue/' he writes, "was one of the most pronounced 
aristocrats I have ever met; a real Sybarite who was tor- 
tured by the fold of a rose-leaf. When the enormous 
success of the 'Mysteries of Paris' had given him over 
to the democracy. Doctor Veron (a publisher) said to him, 
'There is a fortune to be made in attacking the Jesuits.' 
And he laid a hundred thousand franc notes on the table. 
That is the history of the 'Wandering Jew' as related by 
Veron, who afterwards freely confessed that the dearly 
bought scythe had mown nothing at all, unless it might be 
the subscribers." 

A rival publisher came to Feval, then only twenty-five, 
and, as he says, "vainer than any peacock you could 
find" and urged him to write a book also against the 
Jesuits, telling him that he had a room full of documents 
to help him out. Peval accepted the task, but after work- 
ing hard for a month studying the question he abandoned 
the work in disgust and wrote as follows to the publisher : 
"I am going to Brittany, and I have thrown the sheets 
of our book into the fire. Pardon me for returning your 
'documents' and your money, but I find that I undertook 
in a trifling way and ignorantly, a task that does not be- 
come an honorable writer, and though I am utterly in- 
different as far as religion goes, I am as careful of my 
literary honesty as I am of the apple of my eye. Under- 
stand, I am not attacking others' honor or honesty ; opin- 
ions . are free ; I speak for myself alone. ... I have 
found out by reading your own documents that I had 
undertaken to calumniate for so much a line men who are 
not only innocent of all crime, but are useful citizens, bene- 
factors of mankind, soldiers of science, peaceful conquer- 
ors, apostles, heroes, saints whose only fault is having 



116 GEE AT PENITENTS 

excelled all other bodies of men in bringing out by the 
strength of their arms, their sweat, their blood itself, what 
is perhaps the most astonishing work of civilization in 
modern times." These honest words written thirty years 
before Feval's conversion were, indeed, heroic, at a time 
when "not to spit on the Jesuit was indecent !" 

The publisher, nothing daunted, then urged him to write 
a book in favor of the Jesuits, and so create a literary 
sensation! But Feval was afraid. "I Avas afraid/' said 
he, "of falling into bad odor with the people who disperse 
success. I was afraid of my enemies, but, above all, I 
feared my friends. To make known all the testimony 
unwillingly favorable to the Jesuits that I had found while 
bent on their condemnation amid the heap of papers livid 
with their adversaries hatred, would have been to come- 
promise me forever. ... I was afraid of the journals 
I contributed to, I was afraid of my readers whom I liked 
and who liked me. It made my flesh creep to think of 
the amount of popular prejudice." So the book was not 
written until long after, in spite of the fact that the 
irreligious Feval had his sons educated in Jesuit colleges. 
It required a grace from God to give him courage to defend 
the truth. "I was dozing in my worldly prosperity," 
he said, "I needed misfortune to awaken me, and a sorrow 
that should scald my eyes with tears. The misfortune 
came ; an unaccustomed sorrow fell upon me without warn- 
ing, threw me to the earth and in that solemn moment 
when the soul hesitates and shivers, called on one side 
by repentance and life, on the other by revolt and death, 
I was assisted by a Jesuit who touched the crucifix to 
my pains and lifted me out of despair. ... I have said 
that before; here, there, everywhere; do not blame me 
for saying it over again, it would be of no use. I will 
say it and say it again in the thankful joy of my heart 
until the last hour of my life." And he continues : "My 
conversion constituted my nobility, my glory and my 



PAUL FEVAL 117 

triumph in this world and it will be my salvation in the 
one to come. And I gather with a pious care whatever 
relates to my conversion. I have already made one book 
about it, and I shall make others, repeating: Quia fecit 
mihi magna qui potens est. Is it not my right and my 
duty to chant the Magnificat of my conversion ?" 

And thus he concludes: "I have spent thirty years 
not in making this book but in summoning up courage 
enough to write the first line of it. Would to God I had 
spent this better half of my life in getting light on the 
subject to the extent of my poor ability ! But I have sown 
my long road with light pages that have been the sport 
of the wind. In them the name of God is dubiously 
honored, religion receives an empty respect, and there is 
scarcely one of those pages that I can read with unmixed 
pleasure. I have lost too much time. Thirty years ! . . . 
I do not know if I shall be read, but I hope so. For some 
my bad books will serve as a passport to this book, and 
that at least will be good/' 

As an apologist Feval was untiring. The most beauti- 
ful of all his books is his "Les Etapes d'une Conversion" 
— "The Steps of a Conversion" — in which he gives us 
a charming picture of his own family in the far distant 
Breton days. It was a work of four volumes published 
at intervals and is full of faith and love. He is forever 
insisting on the glory of his conversion back to God and 
thanking Him for the mercy of it. "Every conversion," 
he writes, "implies at the same time criminal error and 
His merciful chastisement. Happy the wounded hearts! 
Happy the suffering that warns and converts! Happy 
the captives enchained by the benediction of sorrow!" 
Well could he write : "I was saved, having received the 
gift of first tears. Since then I believe, I hope, and I 
love. I am happy : I know how to pray !" 

FevaFs pen was forever going. He contributed in- 
numerable articles to the papers, especially the Catholic 



118 GEE AT PENITENTS 

journals, and at one time directed three different publica- 
tions. He had in view the writing of many other books 
in defence of the Church. It was a hard task he had set 
himself and no wonder that the strenuous, ceaseless labor 
gradually undermined his health. A sudden stroke of 
apoplexy incapacitated him. He became a helpless in- 
valid. In this condition he remained for five years. The 
Societe des Gens de Lettres, of which he was president — 
he was also an officer of the Legion of Honor — had him 
placed in the Home conducted by the Brothers of St. John 
of God. There he was tenderly nursed through the long 
years and there, attended by one of his daughters, who 
was a Sister of Charity, he died March 8, 1887. 

He was buried from the Church of St. Francis Xavier, 
the funeral being attended by all the celebrities of art 
and literature. At the interment in Montparnasse Ceme- 
tery eulogies were pronounced by Jules Claretie in the 
name of the Societe des Gens de Lettres and by Ludovic 
Halevy in the name of the Societe des Auteurs et Com- 
positeurs Dramatiques. 

The Vicomte de Spoelbergh de Lovenjoul in his Les 
Lundis d'un Chercheur pays a glowing tribute to Feval's 
literary worth. "Paul Feval," he writes, "though placed 
in literature at a respectful distance from the great Alex- 
ander Dumas, remains, however, one of the masters of 
this age in stories of adventure. By his fertile imagina- 
tion the power of conceptions and the astonishing variety 
of his inspirations, he is certainly of the race of the inex- 
haustible author of Monte Cristo and of the Musketeers, if 
he is not his equal. Both of them will remain for a long 
time the best amusers of the sad and morose generations 
which have succeeded them. . . . All these works as- 
sure him a literary rank of the most distinguished among 
the writers of these times." 

But whatever may be said of Feval's literary glory, he 
deserves a place among heroic souls, who when the grace of 



P A U L FEVA L 119 

God came corresponded with it, considering the world and 
its glory as nothing, and the labor for eternal life as every- 
thing. It is not of Feval, the rich, the famous, we love to 
think, but of Feval, the "penitent romancer," Feval, the 
great penitent. 



FATHER HERMANN: MUSICIAN AND MONK 

IN VAIN would one search the musical dictionaries of 
today for mention of the b6y-genius who once engaged 
the attention of the musical world, not alone as a 
virtuoso, but also, and perhaps more so, as the darling 
pupil of Liszt, the pet prodigy of George Sand. 

Hermann Cohen was born November 10, 1821, in Ham- 
burg, Germany. He was the son of David Cohen, a strict 
Jew, who traced his ancestry back to the tribe of Aaron. 
The father was a well-to-do tradesman, or as some would 
have it a banker, and occupied a high position among his 
compatriots, who constituted a colony numbering twenty- 
five thousand. This colony, as was to be expected, had 
suffered some modification owing to association with the 
outside world, and so David Cohen, in spite of his strict 
orthodoxy, was, like many of his countrymen of all ages, 
fondly in love with the goods of this world. Hence it 
is not surprising that greed for business reigned supreme 
in the household and that money and stocks were the 
topics of conversation from morning until night. 

In this atmosphere of broad Judaism young Hermann 
spent his childhood. He and his elder brother were sent to 
the principal college of the city, where, in spite of delicate 
health, his progress was rapid. He was noted for his 
amiable disposition, though there was a seriousness about 
him which inclined to moodiness. This gloom was due, 
perhaps, to the growing ill health of the lad, which made 
it advisable in his ninth year to take him out of school 
work and allow him to continue his studies at home, a mis- 
fortune not so great as might be supposed, for he was 

120 



FATHER HERMANN 121 

quick to learn, and had an earnest desire to improve. But 
it was in music that his advance was most phenomenal. 
At the age of six he played well the popular airs of the 
day, improvised on the piano, and had even attempted 
composition. Such precociousness pleased the father so 
much that when the boy found fault with the old harpsi- 
chord it required no persuasion to induce him to purchase 
a grand piano. Yet, notwithstanding this zeal for the boy's 
advancement, there was little vigilance exercised in regard 
to his associates, at the most impressionable period of 
his life. 

On leaving school he was placed under the care of a 
professor, whose morals were no clearer than his mental 
faculties. He rewarded "le petit prodige" for his talent 
by taking him to the theater and the race course, and 
initiating him into the mysteries of hunting and gambling. 

One can easily foresee the effect of such an association 
upon the brilliant lad. It was well that it was soon brought 
to an end, though by reverses in the fortunes of the head 
of the family. Hermann was twelve years of age when 
Mrs. Cohen, seeing how she had fallen from her high 
estate, and chafing under the thought that she must live a 
life of comparative poverty where once she had been used 
to every luxury, determined to leave the scene of her 
affliction and settle where none of her old friends could 
taunt her with her present need ; for she was a woman of 
lofty manners. Accordingly, leaving her husband and 
eldest son to try to repair the family fortunes in Ham- 
burg, she set out for Paris, taking with her Hermann and 
his younger brother and sister. Possibly she thought that 
the earning power of the boy whose talent had been the 
talk of amateur circles in the days of prosperity might 
be of service at a time when all help would be acceptable 
to David Cohen. When they stopped at Mecklenbourg, 
on the way to Paris, the Grand Duke was so impressed 
on hearing the boy play, that he besought the mother to 



122 GEEAT PENITENTS 

let her son give all his time to music. Mrs. Cohen needed 
no great persuasion. The lad had already made his 
debut successfully in Altona, and any lingering doubt 
was dispelled by his success in Erankfurt and other great 
German cities. And so, with the intention of devot- 
ing her son to music, she came to the city of Paris July 
5, 1834. 

It was not difficult for the mother to get a hearing for 
the boy. His name was already known as that of a re- 
markable amateur, and his letters of recommendation as- 
sured him admission to the smartest salons. Here he soon 
became the center of brilliant assemblies, the recipient of 
the applause and even of the caresses of the beautiful 
and cultured ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain. They 
vied with one another in trying to spoil him, giving dinner 
parties and soirees at which the twelve-year-old genius, 
who looked even younger with his long girlish curls and 
kilted costume, rewarded his admirers with exhibitions of 
his precocious talents. 

Even when the modern press-agent was only in embryo 
the daily papers recorded the triumphs of the little Jew, 
and he was besieged for his portrait. Alas for youth that 
never knew the joys of youth! What is that poem of 
Stevenson's ? 

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, 

Say, if that lad be I; 
Merry of soul he sailed on a day 

Over the sea to Skye. 



It was so with the lad who had been saturated with the 
world almost from babyhood, a man without having passed 
through boyhood, "an abortion of celebrity/' as he calls 
himself, whom the flattery of worldly men and women 
kept from his home till the small hours of the morning, 



FATHER HERMANN 123 

gradually destroying in his soul the remnants of virtue 
in the maelstrom of Parisian luxury. 

It was deemed advisable to put the boy under the in- 
struction of one of the great teachers of the day. Chopin 
was first selected because after a long period of neglect he 
was now the mode. He took one lesson from this master, 
and went from him to Zimmerman, from whom also he 
took one lesson. From this we suspect that the purpose 
of the boy was to make a trial of all the famous teachers 
of the city before submitting himself to any one of them. 
At length he came to Liszt, then twenty-three years of age, 
who, on his arrival in Paris, had undergone the course 
Hermann was now enduring, having been called the eighth 
wonder of the world. Liszt, whose name was one to 
conjure with in Paris, both as a pianist and as a teacher, 
at first refused to take the boy as his pupil, and it was 
only after great persuasion that he was induced to give 
him a hearing at all. Half unwillingly he listened to the 
playing of the lad, but it was so charming, so full of 
genius, so replete with hopes of a great career, that the 
famous virtuoso immediately assumed charge of his musi- 
cal education, predicting wonderful things for him. From 
that time Hermann was the spoiled pet of Liszt, his com- 
panion from morning until night, his "show pupil," who 
must accompany him to the innermost circles of wealth 
and culture, where the master was always a welcome 
guest. 

However advantageous this friendship was to the boy 
in the development of his musical talent, it could not but be 
harmful in the formation of his character. It familiarized 
him with ideas which sooner or later must bear evil fruit. 
The whirlpool of Paris had swallowed Liszt. The "sec- 
ond Mozart," whom Beethoven had kissed amid the frantic 
cheers of the Viennese public at the close of a recital there, 
had come to Paris the devout son of fervent Catholics. 
Even after a tour of France and a second trip to London 



124 GEEAT PENITENTS 

his faith was so strong that he would have entered Holy 
Orders were it not for the opposition of his father. A 
period of convalescence, when he was about eighteen, was 
employed in reading Voltaire and Eousseau. Eeligious 
doubts assailed him. De Lammenais had been his resort 
for the solution of them, and he had followed him — alas ! 
In 1835 he wrote of the Church: "She seems doomed to 
perish in oblivion." Jules Sandeau, Victor Hugo, Alfred 
de Musset, Planche, George Sand — these were his asso- 
ciates and his new evangelists. He was twenty-three when 
he met George Sand, who had just returned from Venice, 
where she had broken with De Musset. But in 1834, the 
year in which Hermann had come to Paris, Liszt had met 
and been conquered by the Countess d'Agoult, known as 
"Daniel Stern." This woman was so infatuated with the 
virtuoso that she left her husband and her three children 
to follow him, and that infatuation lasted for ten years. 

Such was the youth who had once moaned because he 
had not been allowed to take Holy Orders! Such was 
the preceptor of Hermann! And by his side, exercising 
perhaps a greater influence upon the boy, was the strange 
woman who had the name of a man and few of the instincts 
of a woman — George Sand, who has immortalized the 
young pianist in her "Lettres d'un Voyageur." It is not 
pleasant to recall the low moral condition of the men and 
women who constituted themselves the protectors, the edu- 
cators, of the little boy in a strange city, but if one would 
understand the full glory of his conversion one must 
follow him, even through the sewers of iniquity, where his 
feet slipped along ere they struck the solid rock of the 
way of the cross. 

Amantine Lucille Aurore Dupin-Dudevant had been so 
religious during her convent school days as to have yearned 
to become a nun herself, but under the subsequent tutelage 
of her grandmother, a free-thinker who deliberately 
planned a course of reading destined to destroy the girl's 



FATHER HERMANN 125 

vocation, she gradually lost her faith. Married to the vul- 
gar Colonel Dudevant at the age of eighteen, she left him 
in 1831 at the age of twenty-seven, and came to Paris to 
make a living by her pen. She had already displayed re- 
markable talent, but it was some time before the new writer 
found her audience. When she did she became famous 
immediately. There was an air of mystery about her 
which made everybody wonder. 

Young Hermann was brought to the notice of George 
Sand by Liszt. Fascinated by his musical genius, she 
made a pet of him at once, for she loved music and often 
declared that she would have been a musician had she 
received the proper training. "Music is prayer," she 
said, "it is faith, it is friendship, it is association par 
excellence/' For days she kept the boy at her side while 
she wrote, letting him soothe her with his playing or roll 
the cigarettes which she smoked inveterately during her 
writing hours. She always called him "Puzzi," a tender 
name that Liszt had given him from puzzia, meaning 
darling. 

How beneficial was this influence to a boy of twelve, 
may be judged by the picture we have of the youth seated 
at the piano running scales mechanically while he devoured 
Indiana or Lelia. It was in these days, too, that he came 
under the influence of De Lammenais, who soon became the 
lad's master and hero. In the "Histoire" of Sand she 
tells us of Liszt coming to see her accompanied by De 
Lammenais and "Venfant Israelite, Puzzi." Yet all the 
while the boy was studying hard at his music. After much 
searching in dust-covered folios for accounts of his play- 
ing, I have found in the Gazette Musicale of Paris for 
April 19, 1835, the following notice: "We take pleasure 
in announcing the concert of the young Hermann of Ham- 
burg, pupil of Mr. Liszt, which will take place next Thurs- 
day, April 23, at eight o'clock in the evening, in the 
Chantereine hall. A duo for four hands, the composition 



126 GEEAT PENITENTS 

of M. Pixis, executed by M. Liszt and the beneficiary, the 
grand potpourri of Czerny for four grand pianos, by Mes- 
sieurs Liszt, Lourosky, Alkan and Hermann/' etc. 

In the letters of Liszt, as well as in the works of George 
Sand, we get an occasional glimpse of the affection which 
was showered upon the boy by his two older companions. 
In 1834 began the fascination of the Countess d'Agoult 
for the great virtuoso, and in the following year they de- 
termined to travel through Switzerland and Italy, taking 
Puzzi with them. The boy had prevailed upon his mother 
to allow him to go in order to continue his lessons with 
Liszt. Evidently there had been a little dispute between 
Sand and the Hermanns, for in the November of that year 
we have Liszt writing to her, "Come to us, then, and that 
as soon as possible. Puzzi has already bought a pipe of 
peace in your honor." Many letters passed between the 
friends, and Hermann came in for his share of mention, 
always in a playful and loving manner. "The illustrious 
doctor," she calls him, "ratissimo" the "rat" and "le 
gamin musical/' In one of her letters to the Countess she 
beseeches her not to give Puzzi a bon-bon for a whole dav 
for not writing to her, and again to "pull the ear of the 
ragazzo di-rosa" 

Liszt had called himself and his little pupil "fellows," 
and this title was often given to him as well as to Hermann 
by Sand. "Fellows primo" was Liszt and "fellows secun- 
do" was Hermann. "I want the fellows," she wrote; "I 
want them as soon as possible, and as long as possible, 
I w r ant them unto death." 

In one of her letters to the maestro she says: "It is 
you especially, my dear Franz, whom I place in a picture 
inundated with light — magical apparition which arises in 
the darkness of my evening meditations . . . But if 
I made this picture I would not forget the charming Puzzi, 
your well beloved pupil. Raphael and Tebeldaeo, his 
young friend, never appeared with more grace before God 



EATHEB HERMANN 127 

and man than yon two, my dear children, when I saw yon 
one evening across the orchestra of a hnndred voices, all 
silent to hear yonr improvisations. The child just behind 
you pale, affected, motionless as marble, yet as a flower 
ready to scatter its petals, seemed to inhale the harmony 
through all his pores and to open his pure lips to drink 
in the honey which you were pouring out for him." Again, 
"I received news of you through a letter from Puzzi ; you 
have a mother of pearl piano ; you play it near the window 
looking out upon the lake, looking up to the snows of Mt. 
Blanc." At length George Sand came to visit her friends 
at Geneva. "The first object in my path," she says, "was 
Puzzi, sitting astride of his traveling bag; but he was so 
changed, so much grown, he had such a head of long brown 
hair, his blouse was of such feminine cut, that I was mys- 
tified. I no longer recognized the little Hermann, but 
took off my hat and asked, 'My handsome page, tell me 
where Lara is V " Very girlish the boy must have seemed 
at that time, for soon after when the company went to 
the Church of St. Nicholas, where Liszt played the Dies 
Irae on the great organ, the old organist was told that 
Puzzi was a celebrated Italian cantatrice who was follow- 
ing Liszt in disguise. Liszt established a conservatory at 
Geneva, and gave one of the classes to Hermann, who di- 
rected it with the assistance of a young German named 
Schad. 

Evil example had already begun to bear fruit in the 
boy's soul. While in Paris, his head had been turned by 
the strange doctrines he had heard from the lips of celeb- 
rities. Long after he wrote to Eather Eatisbonne, "They 
were early at work to make me a scapegoat of all those 
dreadful doctrines which, springing up from the bottom 
of Hell, were creeping out all over the surface of this 
Parisian den. Soon this head of only fourteen made 
room for atheism, pantheism, Fourrierism, Saint-Simon- 
ism, communism, socialism, riot, massacre of the wealthy, 



128 GEEAT PENITENTS 

abolition of marriage, terrorism, agrarianism and the com- 
munity of enjoyment in all pleasures. Evil makes rapid 
strides; I soon became one of the most zealous of propa- 
gandists of sects that are sworn to change the face of the 
world and, consequently, the pet Benjamin of more than 
one of the apostles of a misnamed civilization." Such 
was evidently his state of mind during the stay at Geneva, 
for we find the youth of sixteen making a pilgrimage to 
Fernay, where he rhapsodized before the statue of Rous- 
seau. It was not surprising, therefore, that for the new 
and more companionable friends he neglected the mother 
who had followed him to Geneva to w T atch over him. 

When Liszt resumed his travels again Hermann had 
to return to Paris alone. It was a strange gift which Liszt 
gave his pupil on parting with him; a Bible with these 
words written on the fly-leaf by the hand of the maestro: 
"Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God." 
Were the old thoughts of his childhood's purity and reli- 
gion pulling at the heart strings of the musical genius, 
and did he regret the impious associations into which he 
had led the boy ? We know, at any rate, that he had often 
tried to break away from the woman, who still clung to 
him in spite of himself. 

Even in those days Hermann had a fancy to become 
a Christian ; but he was uncertain as to whether he should 
embrace Catholicity or Protestantism, and so the fancy 
passed away, and the youth of sixteen was plunged again 
into the world and its allurements. For a time he settled 
down in Paris, devoting himself to teaching and the giving 
of concerts. He made considerable money, but it went in 
gambling and luxurious living. Then the passion of travel 
came upon him, and he made trips to Italy, London, and 
his own native Hamburg. "Reckless from success," he 
said, "and a prey to every kind of bad habits, I traveled 
through England and Switzerland, Italy and Germany, 
growing ever more mad after philosophical novelties, 



FATHEE HEEMANN 129 

everywhere examining the working and finding out the 
novelties of the poisoned doctrines with which my child- 
hood had been imbued. Priests I looked upon as the bane 
of society, but the monks I shunned as so many anthro- 
pophagi. Who would have told me, when I returned to 
Paris, that divine Providence intended to show me from 
how far it could lead a stray creature back !" 

Hermann was then a young dandy who lived but for 
the day. According to one of his contemporaries he was 
the real beau, very gentlemanly, extremely courteous, 
careless, however, about his conversation and unreserved 
in telling about his exploits. And no matter where he 
went, whether it was to Italy to see Liszt, to London or 
to Venice for the production of his opera, he was ever 
the rabid redflagger, hot of speech and deeply interested 
in the designs of the revolutionary element in every 
country. 

Such a course must inevitably bring ruin. The youth 
who had become the victim of every passion, of all the 
snares of youth, was obliged to flee from Paris and seek 
the protection of his father in Hamburg, beseeching him 
to extricate him from the plight into which his gaming 
propensities had plunged him. But the father, who had 
heard of his escapades, refused to give him any help. He 
was heartily ashamed of the son of whom he had expected 
great things, not in artistic lines only, but in the making 
of a substantial fortune. Nothing daunted by this cold 
reception, the youth traveled through Germany, where 
his undoubted talent gained him a hearing and flattering 
receptions from the noblest families. Still the gambling 
craze stuck to him, and when in Paris he found himself 
again ruined he was at the point of committing suicide. 
Again did he become the dandy of the Faubourg St. Ger- 
main, and still more the slave of the world's sin. We get 
a glimpse of him in the life which Paul de Musset wrote 
of his brother Alfred. "Alfred admired him, both as a 



130 GEE AT PENITENTS 

pianist and a composer; and, while the musician impro- 
vised, the poet would devise verses adapted to the move- 
ment of the music. They thus composed three songs — 
'Bonjour, Suzon/ 'Non, Suzon, pas encore/ and 'Adieu, 
Suzon/ Another melody by the same master adapted to 
Italian words, was afterwards adopted by Steinberg for 
the barcarolle which he sings in 'Bettine.' " But the soul 
of the young musician was never at ease. Divine grace 
was troubling the Bethesda pool of his corrupt and putrid 
heart. 

The great work was done in 1847, when Hermann was 
twenty-seven years of age. At the Church of St. Valery, 
Burgoyne Street, Paris, devotions for the month of May 
were held with great solemnity, the music being under 
the direction of the Prince of Moskowa, whose choir of 
efficient amateurs attracted many listeners. One Friday 
evening he invited Hermann to play the organ for him. 
At the benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, though Her- 
mann felt no disposition to kneel, there came over him a 
strange sensation causing him to bow. The feeling re- 
turned to him on the following Friday. There came to 
him then an inspiration to become a Catholic. A few 
days later when, on passing the Church, he heard the bell 
ring for Mass, he entered and remained for three Masses. 
That afternoon he was drawn thither again and, the 
Blessed Sacrament being exposed, he fell on his knees as 
though compelled by some power greater than himself. 
"I felt as it were a great weight descend upon me which 
forced me to my knees, yea, even to bow to the ground in 
adoration." 

That day he hunted out a prayer-book on the shelves 
of one of his friends and studied it earnestly to find out 
about this great devotion of Catholics. All the night he 
thought of the Blessed Sacrament. Thereafter he went 
to Mass often, his mind wrought up to a high pitch of 
excitement. Grace had not yet come and he knew not 



PA THEE HE EM AX X 131 

what course to pursue. Iu this condition he went to Ems 
to give a concert, and on Sunday at Mass he felt the same 
strange emotion. At the elevation he burst into tears, 
and knew that grace had come. "I had often w T ept in 
my childhood/ 7 he says, "but never such tears as these. 
All at once I saw before me all the sins of my past life, 
hideous, vile, revolting, worthy the wrath of the Sovereign 
Judge. And yet I felt also a miraculous calm, God in 
his mercy forgiving me these sins, and accepting my firm 
resolution to love Him henceforth above all things." 

He went immediately to the Duchess of Eauzanne and 
begged her to introduce him to a priest. Abbe LeGrand 
began to instruct him, giving him L'Homond's Exposition 
of Christian Doctrine. God alone knows the struggle 
that the awakened soul endured in those days. The devil 
does not release his prey without a terrible effort to retain 
it still unto its destruction. And so he made use of the 
concerts and parties and feasts and the joy of living, and 
the wit of men and the smile of women, the allurements 
of the world and the flesh to keep the heart of the youth 
from corresponding to the grace of God. On his return 
from Ems Hermann shut himself in his room, and devoted 
himself to the study of the doctrines of the Church. His 
conversion had been effected at Ems, August 8, 1847, 
and on the 28th day of that same month, the feast of the 
great St. Augustine, who ever seemed to play a part in 
the life of Hermann, he was baptized by the Abbe LeGrand 
in the memorial chapel of Our Lady of Zion, built by 
the famous convert from Judaism, the Abbe de Eatisbonne, 
in the Eue de Eegard. To this church was attached a 
convent, all of whose inmates, nuns and orphans, were 
converts from Judaism. 

The new convert was confirmed by Monseigneur Affre 
on December 3d, taking the name of Xavier. On the 
eighth of that same month he received his first Holy Com- 
munion with faith and love so ardent as to transform his 



132 GEEAT PENITENTS 

countenance. His old friends could hardly believe him to 
be the same person, so great was the change. He was pale 
and reserved; he wore a long overcoat, a broad-brimmed 
felt hat, common shoes — far different from the clothes 
in which he had once taken so much pride. His room 
was poorly furnished — an iron bed, a piano, a trunk, a 
crucifix, a small statue of Our Lady, and small pictures 
of St. Theresa and St. Augustine. If he could abandon 
the world entirely and hide himself with God alone! But 
he must first pay the debts of the gambler Hermann, and 
to this task he set himself with all the ardor of a penitent 
spirit. Those were long and dreary years, the time spent 
in giving lessons and concerts to wipe out the debt of 
thirty thousand francs. In addition to the suspense, the 
dismal labor, there were customs and habits and memories 
to be combated, contempt and raillery of former com- 
panions to be endured. Hermann had recourse to the 
sacraments and prayer, the remedies which had sustained 
Augustine when the call of the past seemed imperative. 
In the intervals of his lessons he recited the rosary and 
read pious books; but above all put his trust in the 
Blessed Sacrament which was ever to be the object of his 
greatest devotion. 

Two years of exile ended, and Hermann determined 
to become a monk. He had had doubts about the choice 
of a vocation, whether to become a secular or a religious> 
and had consulted Lacordaire. "Have you the courage to 
let yourself be spit upon in the face and say no word?" 
asked Lacordaire. "Yes," answered Hermann. "Then 
go and be a monk," was the answer. He went therefore 
to the Carmelite convent at Agen, and thence to the novi- 
tiate of Brouissey near Bordeaux, where, alas, for the 
aspirant to sanctity, there was a fresh obstacle to be met. 
A Jew could not be admitted into the Carmelites without 
special dispensation from Rome ; and Borne, knowing his 
past, refused to grant the dispensation. 



FATHEE HERMANN 133 

There was nothing for Hermann to do but to go to Rome 
and plead in person with the Holy Father. Happily, a 
general council of the Carmelites was then in session at 
Rome. Before it he laid his case and the dispensation was 
granted. He returned to Brouissey and was admitted 
October 6, 1849. On the sixteenth of that same month 
died Chopin, another to whom the " woman with the sombre 
eye/' as de Musset called George Sand, had been an evil 
genius. He asked for Extreme Unction, confessed, re- 
ceived Holy Viaticum, and having recited the litany after 
the priest, passed into eternity. Who can say how much 
of that happy death was due to the prayers of the other 
musician buried in the silence of his retreat ! 

Novitiate days were full of true spiritual joy to Her- 
mann, even though the crosses sent to try him were heavy. 
He immediately became an example of perfection, work- 
ing out his salvation with the energy with which he had 
pursued the primrose path of pleasure, — cleaning the 
offices, sweeping the passages, gathering grapes, digging as 
a day laborer, yet always with the joy which comes from 
a good conscience. Nor was his beloved music cast aside. 
What had hitherto been the snare of his soul now became 
the wings to bear him aloft in the beautiful canticles which 
have since made his name famous in ecclesiastical music. 
These were helps to humble and strengthen his soul for 
one of the great trials of his life, now in store for him. 

In the eyes of his countrymen, for a Jew to become a 
Christian was folly; to become a monk was outrageous. 
The news of the defection of Hermann had traveled to 
his family at Hamburg, and it needs no great powers to 
imagine their consternation. One day in the July of 1850 
the mother, who had set out from home to reclaim, if pos- 
sible, the wayward son, came from Paris and took lodgings 
in a house near the convent. That evening she came to 
the convent, called for her son, and was shown to the little 
chapel, where she took a seat in a nook by the window 



134 GEE AT PENITENTS 

opening into the cloister garden. Suddenly she started 
back in horror. There before her very eyes was the son 
of whom she had expected such great things, a renegade, 
a monk! Her cup of misery was filled to overflow. It 
seemed an age till he came to her, accompanied by the 
master of novices, and she swooned and fell into his arms. 
Touched by her misery, he sought to console her, but she 
would not be consoled. He had to leave her when the bell 
for the office rang, but she waited for the services too, and 
on hearing him playing upon the little melodeon wept as 
if her heart would break, moved by grief and offended 
motherly love. He had slighted her before for Liszt and 
George Sand. She had won him back, and now he had 
gone from her even more hopelessly to the God of the 
Christians. She begged him to go back to the world with 
her, and went away from the convent, execrating those 
who had taken her son from her. His father, enraged at 
the defection, disinherited and cursed him, forgiving him 
only after many years. Time softens hearts, and Her- 
mann's prayers were ever ascending to God for the con- 
version of his family. He was granted the happiness to 
see ten members of his family come into the Church, 
among them two of his brothers, a sister and her son. His 
mother remained a Jewess to the last, though the son had 
reason to believe that in the final hour she called upon the 
God of the Christians. 

At his profession the young pianist became Brother 
Augustine Marie of the Most Blessed Sacrament. He 
was duly ordained priest, and said his first Mass on Easter 
Sunday in 1851. In 1853 he was ordered to the south 
of France to preach a mission, which was so successful 
as to number among his many converts some of his own 
countrymen. But his health gave way under the strain, 
and ever after he suffered terrible pain. 

The time came for a great act of reparation for the 
scandal he had given during his life in Paris. He was 



FA THEE HE KM ANN 135 

never a great orator, but he had the gift of conviction, 
a gift more potent to move hearts than all the powers of 
elocution; and so when it was announced that the once 
celebrated Hermann was to preach at St. Sulpice, April 
24, 1854, the edifice was thronged with a curious and 
interested crowd. It was a wonderful sermon, in which 
he reminded his audience of his life of sin in days not so 
long distant, and told them of the coming of the grace of 
God and his strange conversion. Then he turned to a 
group of young men present and begged them to do as he 
had done, to follow him and share his happiness. 

So it was always. The strange circumstances of Her- 
mann's conversion, the remembrance of his fame as a 
pianist, brought him invitations from all sides to preach, 
and these, in spite of his continual sufferings, he accepted 
whenever it was possible. On one occasion he went to 
preach in Geneva where he had been at one time with 
Liszt. "How our old friends will be astonished," he wrote 
to his former colleague in Liszt's conservatory, Joseph 
Schad, the pianist. Surely they would have been aston- 
ished. I cannot help thinking that it was Hermann's 
prayers for his old maestro which led Liszt in his latter 
days to take orders in the Church of his childhood, where, 
as he wrote to Saint-Saens in 1869, "one must learn to 
subordinate himself in mind and deed." Here he devoted 
himself to sacred music and charity concerts. But, alas, 
for George Sand ! She died as she lived, away from God. 
Yet Hermann had not abandoned her without an attempt 
to lead her back to the piety of her convent days. Once 
after his profession he was allowed to call upon her, but 
she would not listen to him. He was no longer the child 
of the world, the little "Puzzi" who had rolled her cigar- 
ettes, or soothed her with the music she loved. "So you 
have become a monk," she sneered. That was all. The 
interview was ended. Yes, he had become a monk, a real 
monk who did not spare himself for the glory of God. 



136 GEEAT PENITENTS 

He was ever working, now founding the desert of Taras- 
tiex, now the Lyons foundation, where he was so beloved 
by the people that they went on their knees to beg his 
blessing as he passed. Cardinal Wiseman met him at 
Eome in 1862, and was so impressed that he begged his 
superiors to send him to England. The general of the 
Carmelites refused, but the Cardinal, undaunted, appealed 
to the Pope, who sent Hermann thither. The London 
people remembered the young pianist who had amused 
them in the olden days and knowing the story of his con- 
version, flocked to hear him at Kensington, where he was 
established. But he was not to remain there permanently. 
"In spite of my conversion, I am always the wandering 
Jew," he said. He was everywhere, — at Lyons, Rouen, 
Eome, Paris, Geneva, yes, and in Ireland, in spite of his 
weak health and constant suffering. Finally he was ap- 
pointed chaplain to the soldiers imprisoned in the German 
fortress, and there his labors were brought to an end. 
Smallpox was raging among the prisoners, and while min- 
istering to them he contracted the disease. 

"Can you sing the Te Deum?" he asked of the Sister 
who was attending him. 

She could not. 

"The Salve Begina?" 

"Yes," she replied. 

"Then let us sing it together," he said. And with that 
song on his lips he went to the land of eternal harmonies, 
January 20, 1871. He was buried in the church of 
St. Hedwidge, Berlin. 



J. B. CAEPEAUX 

CARPEAUX was one of the greatest sculptors that 
France ever produced. With every year since his 
death his fame has grown. He is sure of his niche 
in the hall of fame, but it is not as the masterful artist 
that he appeals to us. Carpeaux at the height of his glory, 
in the fulness of his powers, does not thrill us so much 
as the poor suffering Carpeaux, stretched on his bed of 
pain through weary months waiting for the merciful touch 
of the hand of death. Carpeaux in his strength had drunk 
deep of the cup of sin. He wandered far from God on 
the primrose path; he traveled slowly back by the hard 
road of the cross. He who had made many a masterpiece 
bowed down at last before the chef d'oeuvre of the Great 
Artisan — the Crucified Christ. Carpeaux was a great 
penitent, even though like the penitent thief he saluted 
his Master only in the valley of the shadow of death. 

Carpeaux was born at Valenciennes in French Flanders 
May 11, 1827. Here also had been born another great 
artist, Watteau, a statue of whom Carpeaux in the fulness 
of his powers made for his native city. He was baptized 
Jean Baptiste Jules. He was always called Jules until 
he became a celebrity, and then he simply signed himself, 
J. B. Carpeaux. His father, Joseph, w T as by trade a 
mason, though in order to keep the wolf from the door he 
did not disdain being a jack of all trades, now working 
as a carpenter, now as a thatcher. His mother's maiden 
name was Adele Wargny. They were poor people, in 
fact their poverty was extreme, and they found it diffi- 
cult to feed their children let alone have any ambitions 

137 



138 GEE AT PENITENTS 

to give them a place in the world. Consequently, Jean 
Baptiste received very little schooling. He had to leave 
the Brothers' school just when he was able to read and 
write and do a little figuring. He did not rebel against 
his lot, however. He was born of the people, was proud 
of that fact, and always had the tastes of the people. But 
the genius cannot be kept down by lack of opportunities ; he 
makes his own opportunities. Carpeaux was possessed 
of a remarkably fine intelligence, of an elevation of char- 
acter, and of a nobility of heart, and these spurred him 
on to supply later on the deficiencies of his boyhood's 
education. If there was ever a truly self-made man it 
was he. Even the humble employment of his father 
helped him in his career, for the work as a mason gave 
strength to his arm for the fashioning of his masterpieces 
of sculpture. 

For Carpeaux was destined to be a sculptor. He felt 
it in him. Even as a child he had no other dream than 
to make statues. His father wanted him to be an archi- 
tect and put him to study at the school of architecture at 
Valenciennes. When he had learned the elements there 
he came to Paris and took the courses of the royal school 
of design aud mathematics. Mathematics appealed to 
him but little, design a great deal, and in his spare time 
he worked at his modeling, untaught by anyone but by 
his own instinct. 

One day he came to Henri Lemaire, the sculptor, a 
relative of the Carpeaux family, and showed him a head 
which he had modeled. Carpeaux was then but a boy 
of fifteen, the smallest student in the school, and insignifi- 
cant in appearance. Lemaire, without looking at the 
head, shrugged his shoulders at the sight of the' aspirant 
to his art as if to dismiss his pretensions. The lad, indig- 
nant at the silent scorn, burst out in resentment: "Ton 
may be marshal in your art, monsieur, but who told you 



J. B. CARPEAUX 139 

that I would not be prince of it ?" ]STo difficulty, not even 
scorn, could daunt him. But it was an uphill road. Be- 
tween classes he spent his time modeling, using as model 
anyone who was willing to pose for him. To make his 
touch surer he would work with his eyes bandaged. To 
fill in the education which he knew to be lacking he read 
assiduously, especially the books that would help him in 
his chosen profession. 

The boy sculptor finally mustered up courage to bring 
one of his bas-reliefs to Rude, the sculptor, who was so 
impressed by the evident talent displayed in the work that 
he opened his studio to the youth. Rude may be consid- 
ered the first master of Carpeaux. Carpeaux remained 
there eight months and learned much from this teacher, 
for whom he always had the greatest respect. 

From his fifteenth to his twentieth year the life of 
Carpeaux was one continual struggle for existence. His 
father had come to Paris with his family to seek his for- 
tune, but had retired with them to Versailles. The young 
sculptor, alone in the great city, needed all the strength 
of his urging genius to keep him from abandoning his 
quest. There were long months of complete abandonment, 
of misery, of sickness. To earn his daily bread he per- 
formed the most menial labor. jSTot only did he have to 
earn his own living, but the human vultures with whom 
he associated preyed upon him. It was an ugly period in 
the life of Carpeaux when he found his friends in the 
Paris underworld. There was little study then. He mod- 
eled bits and sold them. He worked by day and attended 
class by night. The character of his associates, the evil 
life he was leading, were not conducive to the formation 
of a great artist. For seven years the youth had wasted 
his body, his health, his heart, his brain. He saw at last 
that he never would advance in Paris under such condi- 
tions, and to be free of it all he went back to his native 



140 GEE AT PENITENTS 

city, where lie found hospitality in a fine family of artists. 
There he remained for a year and accomplished some 
really good work. 

The following year he obtained a pension of six hundred 
francs, which permitted him to resume his studies at 
Paris under much more hopeful conditions than during 
his former residence there. He again studied with Rude, 
but Rude, anxious to advance his pupil, sent him to Durer, 
under whom he knew he would make greater progress. 
Carpeaux was in earnest and he did advance. In 1851 
we find him teaching anatomy at the petit ecole, where 
he himself had studied. With his indomitable energy he 
took part in all the contests of the Ecole des Beaux Arts 
and succeeded in winning many prizes. Characteristic of 
his work in those days were the many models he made of 
children. He always had a special love for the little ones. 
In fact Carpeaux, spite of his evident failings, was always 
a child at heart. 

In September, 1854, he obtained the grand prix, and 
on this occasion his native city gave him a reception. The 
son of the poor mason must have felt a thrill of pride as 
he returned in triumph to the city where his childhood 
had known so many hardships. But the rose was not 
without its thorn. His eyes began to trouble him to 
such an extent that he feared he was going to lose his 
sight. Happily the trouble passed and the year 1858 finds 
him entering upon his studies at Rome at the age of 
twenty-eight. His talent, his genius for hard w T ork, had 
at last established him in the world. Up to now it had 
been a hard struggle for recognition, a struggle against 
poverty; fortune at last smiled upon him. The years at 
Rome were years of hard work. Nor were they without 
their struggles. Sometimes he was discouraged, and then 
he would find his greatest help in the little mother whom 
he always loved so tenderly. Thus, October 16, 1858, he 
wrote in reference to a period of discouragement: "My 



J. B. CAEPEAUX 141 

motlier consoled me. She restored to me by her letters 
the hope I had lost. She gave me courage and I went 
back to work." 

Shortly after Carpeaux nearly died at JSTaples. As a 
result of the attack he was ill a long time, and came back 
to Valenciennes to recuperate in 1860. But once more 
he returned to Rome, where he remained hard at work for 
seven years. It was there he met with his first colossal 
success in his famous group of Ugolini. Everybody in 
Rome came to see what was regarded as a masterpiece. 
When the work was sent to Paris for exhibition the French 
did not think so highly of it. But in time the adverse 
criticism was overcome, and today the Ugolini is consid- 
ered one of the great works of the age. 

The now famous sculptor returned to France in the 
spring of 1862, but for some reason or other he was dis- 
gusted with his native country and thought of going back 
at once to Rome. He went north instead, and after a 
short sojourn in Belgium came back to France again. 

Carpeaux, though he had drunk deep of the cup of life, 
though his life was far from being an innocent one, was 
not the "Voltairian deist" which one of his biographers 
would make him out to be. He never lost his faith, even 
though he was for many years a stranger to the practices 
of religion. When he was working for the prix de Rome 
he entered one day the church of Saint Sulpice to pray. 
When he was leaving he remarked simply, "The Virgin 
has promised me that if I worked hard I would get the 
prize." Asked about his beliefs, he replied once, "I love 
with naivete, I believe with all the forces of my soul, and 
I adore with recollection all that elevates one to God." 
Many times he said, when questioned about religion, "Oh, 
me? I am a believer." His friends used to say of him 
that he was "mad with Catholicism." Later on in 1867 
he said to one of his students, "If ever I am sick, don't 
forget to go and get me a priest." 



142 GEEAT PENITENTS 

Carpeaux was always noted for his charity. The story 
is told that one evening in 1872 the body of a drowned 
man was taken from the river. The attempts to revive 
him were vain; he was declared dead. But Carpeaux 
brought the body to his home and for six hours breathed 
into the man, mouth to mouth, and finally saved him. He 
was even full of tenderness for animals. One day his dog 
wounded one of her pups so that the entrails were falling 
out. The great sculptor threaded a needle and sewed up 
the wound. Many a struggling artist owed his success in 
life to Carpeaux' s helping hand. 

The great cloud came upon Carpeaux's life with his 
marriage. In 1864 he had written to a friend of his: "I 
lose from day to day the desire of struggle because my 
powers weaken and my will goes. Today I have only the 
desire to be able to raise pigs, charming chickens, to have 
a horse, a cow, and especially a wife, whom my art has 
always refused me, to find refuge in truth and the true 
life." At last his art allowed him to take a wife, and on 
April 28, 1869, he thought that his cup of joy was full 
in his marriage with Amelie de Montfort, the daughter of 
the Governor General of the Palace of Luxembourg. The 
wedding was celebrated with great pomp at the Church 
of the Madeleine. But the cup of joy was soon dashed from 
his lips. The marriage was an unhappy one. 

Through hard struggle Carpeaux had reached his posi- 
tion in the world, and then suddenly came the crash which 
broke him in twain physically but which happily saved 
his soul. He had arrived at full maturity of his powers, 
a man with a soul of fire, with a noble intellect, with at 
least twenty years of activity ahead of him, when suddenly 
the blow fell that made him a hopeless invalid and robbed 
French art of one of its greatest glories. 

During the Commune he had sought refuge in London 
and there continued his work. But the fatal disease was 
working at him. In 1874 he determined to go to Russia, 



J. B. CAEPEAUX 143 

but got no further than Brussels, where he became seri- 
ously ill. His friend, Alexandre Dumas, came to bring 
him home. He returned to Auteuil and remained there 
for a while. He wandered then to other places, seeking 
his lost health, but all the while he was very ill. "I suf- 
fer with patience," he wrote. He had sore need of pa- 
tience. His sufferings were frightful, day and night. He 
could not even sleep to forget his afflictions. He wanted 
to go to Italy once more, thinking that there he might find 
peace from suffering. But he got no farther than Paris. 
It was evident that he was slowly dying. His sufferings 
increased daily. "What can I say of myself," he wrote, 
"except that I am lost? I suffer without respite. That 
which I endure, that which I suffer, that which I cry is 
impossible to describe. Xo one can help me." He was 
reduced to skin and bone, but he was still patient. "I 
submit to the will of Heaven," he said, "which has decided 
about my last hour." 

There were mental as well as physical sufferings. In 
the midst of his pain he was informed that a judgment 
had been given to his wife against him. She had divorced 
him. He was dispossessed of all he owned. He was then 
staying at Nice. The greatest sorrow of all was to be 
deprived of his son, Charles, whom he loved devotedly. 
Carpeaux had three children, but he cared only for the 
first born, Charles. He begged to have Charles, but the 
wife, to whom the custody of the children was given, told 
him that he must take the three or none. 

The faith that had been put aside during the years of 
success was making its appeal to the man who was facing 
death. During his illness at Xice he succeeded in going 
to Mass every Sunday. He was ready to come home as 
the prodigal son ; he needed but a tender hand to set him 
on the road. 

As we have said before, Carpeaux was not the shame- 
less and cynical artist, the Voltairian deist, that some 



144 GREAT PENITENTS 

thought him. He had come from a thoroughly Catholic 
home, where his youth had been a model one in the Broth- 
ers' school, and later on during his first studies at Paris. 
The relative with whom he lived in those days at Paris 
used to tell of the long prayers he said morning and night, 
filled with devotion. The Parisian life, the company of 
young artists, brought about his fall into a career of sin, 
but through it all he kept the faith. At Pome he had 
been received by Pius IX, who gave him a medal. After- 
wards he wanted to go back to Rome to see the Holy 
Father, for, said he, "I love him much and venerate him." 
As a tribute to him he wanted to make his bust. It was 
this faith that at the first stroke of sickness made him 
resolve to return to God. A help to that end was, no doubt, 
his great charity to the poor. He never refused an appli- 
cant for charity ; lie would bring the poor to eat at his table, 
and would even scatter handfuls of silver and gold to 
them. There were two young Bretons who worked in his 
studio. Their strong faith and piety pleased and im- 
pressed him. "How happy you are," he said. "You have 
only holy passions. I venerate you." 

One day a visitor said to him, "I have no belief." 
"Well," said Carpeaux, "I do not think as you. I believe, 
and this belief is my strength." On the eve of his mar- 
riage he received Holy Communion with his wife. 

He said that the two most beautiful days of his life 
were those of his first Communion and his marriage. 

When Carpeaux became ill most of his boon companions 
left him, but the two Bretons remained faithful to him. 
One of them was particularly dear to him. 

"Do you believe," said Carpeaux to him, "that the 
good God could pardon such a great sinner as I have been ? 
How could God show me mercy ? No, it is impossible !" 

"You deceive yourself," said the young Breton. "See 
St. Augustine. He was a great sinner and yet God par- 



J . B. CAEPEAUX 145 

doned him, and he became a great saint. You should not 
doubt the mercy of God/ 5 

"Oh, St. Augustine! 55 said Carpeaux. "I love him 
with all my heart. I would like to read his life. 55 

At another time he said: "I deserve all my sufferings. 
How I have offended Ood in my life ! How can you wish 
me to confess ? I am too guilty. God cannot pardon me. 55 
And again the Breton tried to convince the despairing 
man of the mercy of God to sinners. 

Again he said: "If I return to life I promise God to 
do as much good as I have done evil. For with a little 
sketch of an hour or two I could solace the misery of my 
poor. 55 

Day by day suffering was bringing the light to his soul. 
"I perceive every day, 55 said he, "that I am a great sinner. 55 
"My greatest suffering on my bed of pain, 55 he said to 
his Breton friend, "is to have abandoned my religious 
duties. If you wish to be happy always, be Christian 
always. 55 

One day the Breton brought to him a Capuchin priest. 
Carpeaux took the priest 5 s hand and held it during the 
entire interview w T hich lasted an hour. It was with deep 
humility he said : "If I had always lived as a good monk 
I would have become the equal of Michael Angelo. 55 
Michael Angelo was his great ideal. 

These were the sentiments of Carpeaux when Prince 
Stirbey met him at Nice. The Prince, who was destined 
to be the instrument to lead the great sculptor back to 
God, had never before met Carpeaux. He had bought 
the sculptor's last group — the Amour Blesse. Seeing him 
so ill he offered him the hospitality of his villa near Cour- 
bevoie, and during the stay at Nice got two Sisters of 
Charity to come and care for the new friend whose genius 
he had long admired. 

As soon as the sick man came to the villa Prince Stirbey 



146 G E E A T P E K" I T E X T S 

surrounded him with every possible attention. Once more 
the dying man made an attempt to get better. He sub- 
mitted to four painful operations in seventeen days. But 
it was hopeless. He was doomed to die, and even the joy 
that came to him with the receiving of the cross of officer 
of the Legion of Honor that August did not drive the fear 
of death from him. "How hard it is to die/' he exclaimed. 

The Prince was a devout Catholic himself and he saw 
the man's danger. He wanted him to make his peace with 
God, but he did not know how to suggest the matter to his 
guest. God showed the way. A little child shall lead 
them. A god-child of the Prince, a little girl, came to 
visit him at Courbevoie. She had just made her first 
Communion at Paris. Carpeaux loved children, and the 
Prince determined to make use of that affection in order 
to win him to prepare for death. The child was soon 
admitted into the affectionate heart of the dying man, and 
she said to him: "Will you give me a great joy, Monsieur 
Carpeaux ?" 

"Surely, my dear," he replied. 

"I receive tomorrow," she replied simply. "Will you 
receive with me ?" 

Carpeaux was silent for a moment as he reflected on 
her words. "But I am not ready," he replied at last. 

"Oh, if it is only that," she replied, "that will be fixed 
soon — my confessor is so good!" 

She returned to Paris at once to seek her confessor. He 
was not at the Madeleine at the time, but in her childish 
wisdom she brought back another priest and to him Car- 
peaux made his confession. The next day they received 
side by side in the church at Courbevoie, Carpeaux being 
carried thither at his urgent request so as not to disappoint 
the child. 

After that Carpeaux had many conversations with the 
priest. He went to confession several times. His last 
confession he made September 29, and there on the ter- 



J. B. CAEPEAUX 147 

race of the Chateau de Becon received Extreme Unction 
and Viaticum. He himself answered the prayers of the 
priest with deep piety. He kissed the crucifix many times. 
"Oh," said he, "how they treated him! Ah, if I regain 
my health I will make a crucifix better than that." Again 
and again then he kissed the sign of redemption. 

In the first days of October the terrible agony began. 
His poor mother was faithful to the end. She and his 
father were with him as he passed into the dark valley. 
He thought of his son, Charles, and grieved that he could 
not see him before he died. His cries then were agonizing. 
"La vie, la vie!" he called. And then: "0 my mother, 
my little mother, I love you wdth all my heart." They 
were his last words. 

Carpeaux died October 12, 1875. His death was a 
great loss to the art which he had so nobly fostered. How 
great that loss was considered was shown by the wonderful 
outpouring at his funeral, where artists, authors, all of 
the intellectual world vied with the people in doing him 
honor. The solemn funeral services were held at the 
church at Courbevoie. Later on the body was removed 
to his native city, Valenciennes, the "Athens of the K"orth," 
as it was called, and after the solemn religious services 
was laid to rest amid the tributes of those who knew 
that here was a great man. 

For a great man Carpeaux was — a great, big, tender 
soul — a great artist whose fame shall ever endure. But 
more than all he was the great penitent who gave testimony 
that all is vanity except to love God and serve Him alone. 



FRANCOIS COPPEE 

SOME years ago a Frenchman, Jules Sageret, wrote 
a book on Les Grands Convertis — the four great 
French writers whose return to God had amazed 
the Parisian public. The converts were Bourget, Brune- 
tiere, Coppee and Huysmans. Sageret rather belittled 
these conversions. He explained the psychology of them 
according to his own preconceptions and dismissed all by 
declaring curtly that the religious experiences of these 
men were of no avail as a tribute to the truth of Catholi- 
cism, and of no influence whatever on French literature. 
So he dismisses Coppee's conversion as a purely personal 
matter, concerning no one but the poet himself. We 
fancy that in like manner Augustine was dismissed when 
he left his Manichean friends. How contemptuously they 
must have thrown aside the "Confessions" of their former 
defender! Thus speaks M. Sageret: "There are few of 
his verses which a Catholic author could not sign. One 
could not find in them any that smack of the free-thinker. 
The conversion of M. Coppee rests indifferent to literature. 
It is then in a word only an affair purely individual." 

That is, indeed, how Coppee himself regarded his con- 
version — an individual matter. That is how Huysmans, 
so long doubted even by good men, regarded his ; that is 
how all penitents regard their conversion. It is the Lord 
Himself who asks, "What doth it profit a man if he gain 
the whole world and suffer the loss of his own soul ?" But 
just because the conversion was so individual, its story 
has power over the hearts of others ; Coppee's "La Bonne 
Souffrance" simple as it is, will always have its place 

148 



FRANCOIS COPPEE 149 

among the greatest of all books — those written out of souls. 
A book that has gone into nearly one hundred and fifty edi- 
tions must be about something more than an affair purely 
individual. 

Frangois Edouard Joachim Coppee was born at Paris 
January 26, 1842. From a worldly point of view it was 
not much of a family. His great-grandmother on his 
father's side belonged to a noble family of Lorraine and 
had two brothers who served in the army of the king. But 
that had been a long time ago. The blue blood of the pa- 
ternal ancestry was of no more interest than the very red 
blood of Baudrit, the locksmith, the father of Coppee's 
mother, a firm patriot he, who had exercised his trade dur- 
ing the Revolution in making pikes. But the Coppees 
wasted no time in tracing ancestral lines. They were too 
busy trying to make a living for their family. Thus in 
his sketch — Adieux a TJne Maison — after telling of the 
pain one must feel in leaving a house that has been part of 
one's very life, Coppee confesses : "I have not known this 
rending. My poor parents, laborious bees of the great city, 
occupied in turn one or other of those hives which are 
the houses of Paris. Often they had to change their shel- 
ter ; and all that is left of them to me are — humble relics, 
indeed — two or three very old pieces of furniture saved 
from the dismantlings." 

Humble home though it was, it was the place where 
Coppee the Catholic as well as Coppee the poet was formed. 
And one could no more neglect his parents in the study 
of his conversion than one could eliminate from the life 
of St. Augustine the influence of his mother, St. Monica. 

Coppee's father was a man of high ideals, a man who 
might have been a poet himself had he had the opportunity. 
But hard work was his portion of life. He held a small 
clerkship in the War Department, a place to which by his 
natural talents he was far superior. But true as he was 
to the traditions of old France and out of sympathy with 



150 GREAT PENITENTS 

new movements lie got no advancement. He was, however, 
passionately fond of literature, an evident influence in the 
career of his son. Whatever the accomplishments of the 
man, he was first of all the true, practical Catholic. It 
was religion that formed his character and made him, as 
his son describes him, "pure, humble, and fearing God." 
This is the picture which that grateful son paints of him : 
"This man of duty, this poor man, proud and pure, 
had to have patient and Christian resignation to gain our 
bread, a daily task, and to deprive himself of everything 
without ever complaining." We get a picture, too, of the 
good man telling the little Frangois stories, sacred stories 
especially, which were to be of service later on in the reli- 
gious experiences of the poet. He was a gentle being ; and 
from him the poet who was to be known as "the poet of the 
humble" got his love for the little ones, the humble ones, 
and his horror of violence and brute force. More than that 
he got from him the piety which slept during the years of 
sin and wanderings far from God, but which came to life 
again in the days of sorrow to bring back the penitent to 
the cross. Thus the poet : 

"And I feel on my lips, surprised, once more 
The prayers he taught in the days of yore." 
If Coppee owed much to his father, he owed still more 
to his mother. It was she, he says, who made him a poet. 
The mother of eight children, four of whom died in in- 
fancy, she had her share of the world's hard work. But 
no one ever heard her complain. She was always gay, 
always singing and laughing at her work, always hopeful 
and full of energy, and her system of meeting new trou- 
bles in the days when poverty and sickness pressed hard on 
the little family was to increase her good humor. No 
wonder Coppee loved her. There is in all literature noth- 
ing more beautiful than his tribute to her in La Bonne 
Souff ranee, his souvenir filial, as he turns the pages of 
the "Life of St. Louis" which she, as a little girl, had won 



FBAXCOIS COPPEE 151 

as a school prize, and from which he had got his first lessons 
in spelling. Ear back as he could remember she had al- 
ways been the old mother. "My mother/' he writes, "was 
nearly forty years old when she brought me into the world. 
They say that in her youth she had much freshness and 
brightness ; but the only portrait of her that exists is one 
that was made a few years before her death, and in the 
lowest depths of my memory her beloved face never ap- 
pears to me but as one already touched with age. Those 
who have known their mother as young and beautiful, can 
they find a particular sweetness in so recalling her? I 
know not. But in my opinion they are privileged whose 
first glances saw leaning over their cradle a face marred 
by life's fatigue, and to whom their mother always seemed 
an old mother. The remembrance they keep of her is, 
if not more dear, at least more sacred, and that veneration 
which old age has is added to the august dignity which 
motherhood has." 

Thus Coppee had reason to be grateful for the home of 
his youth. It w 7 as a home made sacred by hard work, a 
home w r here all was guided by religion ; in a word, a truly 
Christian home. Even when he knew it not the association 
with these wonderful parents of his was exercising an 
eternal influence on his life. He needed such influence. 
Of a frail and delicate constitution, of a nervous energy, 
and made to learn very early both physical and moral suf- 
fering, compelled to face the sorrows and disappointments 
of life, he needed the faith of those loved ones — even 
though for years that was but an unconscious power in his 
life — to enable him to accomplish the work which has 
brought lasting glory to himself and to those who were 
content to be known as the humble Coppees. 

Coppee was never a brilliant student at school. When 
it came time for him to begin his education in earnest he 
was sent to the Hortus, and afterwards, when he was four- 
teen, to the St. Louis Lyceum. But the father remained 



152 GKEAT PENITENTS 

his mentor still. Under his eyes Frangois studied his 
lessons, at times rewarded with a story or a song from his 
father, while the proud mother sat nearby sewing, and 
the two elder sisters read, or worked at the restoration of 
old paintings. Those days of family life are described in 
his book Toute Une Jeunesse — which he says is no more 
an autobiography — and we would like to say, no less — 
than "David Copperfield." He was perfectly happy at 
home, preferring the company of his mother and three 
sisters to that of boys of his own age. Even then the po- 
etic instinct was strong, though at the time he knew noth- 
ing of the making of verses. School had little attraction. 
He liked rather to walk the streets, to visit the museums, 
to read real books, to lounge in the gardens of the Luxem- 
bourg, reveling in the flowers and the sunsets. 

So the schools days passed till the close of the third year 
at the Lyceum. The elder Coppee's health began to fail, 
due to an affection of the brain, and it was necessary to put 
him in a sanitarium. It meant the end of school to 
Frangois. He saw his duty clear, to go out into the world 
and become the breadwinner of the family. He got a 
clerkship in an architect's office, and at once showed him- 
self so efficient that his employer urged him to prepare 
for admission to the school of Fine Arts. At the same 
time during his leisure he drew plans for contractors, 
and in this way added to the small income of the family. 
It was a time of trial, but the experience was of lasting 
benefit. One thing it did for the youth was to make him 
appreciate the education he had been obliged to give up. 
He became more studious out of school than he had been 
as a student. He became more interested in literature, 
read a great deal, and night after night when his work 
was done he would be found in the library of Ste. Gene- 
vieve pursuing his interrupted classics. Architectural 
work was not pleasing to the young poet, for he was then 
expressing his soul in verse, though nothing had as yet 



FRANCOIS COPPEE 153 

been published by him. He gave up his intention of pre- 
paring for the school of Fine Arts and got a position in 
the War Department, where he remained for two years, 
while spending his leisure as formerly in study and in 
making verses. 

Evidently, Coppee's youth was not a glad one. Dur- 
ing those six years there was sorrow in the home, due to 
the condition of his father, who finally succumbed to his 
affliction of paralysis of the brain and ended his Christian 
life among his loved ones, carefully and lovingly attended 
through the trying years by the devoted wife. 

Francois, twenty years of age, was now actually the 
head of the family. It was his to shoulder the burden. 
One sister had married, another had died at the age of 
twenty-two. There remained the old mother and his sister 
Annette, who never married but was her brother's com- 
panion to the end, his devoted admirer, sympathizer and 
adviser. She died but a few days before him. 

It was shortly after the death of his father that the ama- 
teur versifier had the good luck to meet Catulle Mendes, 
the poet, in 1863. Mendes thus describes him as he was 
in those days: "Very young, thin enough, pale, a refined 
air, timid eyes which looked around him; a scanty coat, 
new, however, and very up to date; he had the air of a 
commercial clerk or a clerk in the ministry, and at the 
same time the elegance of his features, the ironic grace of 
his smile with something sweet and a bit sad in it, Pari- 
sian in all his bearing, would make one notice him." 

Mendes did not know then that his new acquaintance 
wrote poetry. One day Coppee got the courage to bring- 
to him the manuscript of verses which he had called Les 
Fleurs Mortelles. Mendes thought the verses remarkable 
for a beginner and asked Coppee to bring to him all that 
he had written. Delighted, the budding poet brought his 
reams of verse, and Mendes had the patience to read all. 
His decision to Coppee was that the whole of it was ex- 



154 GEEAT PENITENTS 

ecrable and that the author did not know the first prin- 
ciples of his trade. 

"All right/' said Coppee, "you teach me then" ; and 
in all humility he threw into the fire the fruit of his 
years of toil. 

And Mendes did teach him. He was a good mentor for 
the aspiring poet. It was a time of poetic revival in 
France, the days of the Parnassus, a group of young poets 
bound together by ties of friendship but severe in the 
criticism of one another's work. They used to meet at 
the home of Mendes. There one would see Jose Maria 
de Heredia, Leon Dierx, Albert Glatigny, Leon Cladel, 
Villiers de l'lsle — Adam, Albert Merat, Leon Valade, 
Georges Lafenestre, E. des Essarts, and sometimes Sully 
Prudhomme. Later on this group united with another 
which included Paul Verlaine. Helped by this school 
of writers, and especially by Mendes, Coppee published 
in 1866 at his own expense his first volume — Le Reli- 
quaive., and in the year following Les Intimites. At once 
he was recognized by literary people as a true poet with 
a charm of his own. But it was a local, a limited fame. 
It was only w^hen he tried his hand at dramatic poetry 
that he succeeded in becoming a celebrity. This was with 
his play, Le Passant, produced in 1869 at the Odeon, 
beautiful verse, indeed, but in no small way helped to 
success by the wonderful talents of the actresses, Agar and 
Bernhardt. In his usual humility the author gave most 
of the credit to them, but, whatever the case, Coppee woke 
up one morning to find himself famous. He was regarded 
as a genius. At last his life was to be made easier. Theo- 
phile, Gautier presented him to Princess Mathilde, the 
"good princess" as she was called, who received him in 
her salon with the poets and other great men of the day. 
She also rendered him a more practical service in obtain- 
ing for him a position in the library of the Senate, for 
which he received a good salary, which provided for the 



FRANCOIS C O P P E E 155 

needs of those at home and gave him leisure for the de- 
velopment of his poetic talents. 

Surely there was joy in the heart of the old mother at 
this beginning of success. Anatole France writes: "We 
know that Madame Coppee saw the first glimmers of the 
celebrity of her son. The friends of that good time re- 
call, in the modest and flower-filled home of the Rue 
Eousselet on the morning following the Passant, the joy 
that illumined the countenance of that brave woman.'' 

But the joy did not last long. For six weeks the young 
poet, now a figure in Paris, enjoyed his new fame. Then 
with scarcely a warning he became seriously ill, suffering 
from fever and bronchitis and threatened with consump- 
tion. Life that had been so sweet was now so bitter! 
Yesterday fame, today the approach of death to end it all ; 
for Coppee was ordered away for the winter, and he him- 
self, as all his friends, thought that the end was near. 

It was, though he knew it not, a grace from God, but 
at this time he rejected the grace. For the young poet, as 
he himself confesses later on with tears, was in those, his 
days of success, a sinner. He was a victim of impurity, 
had been such from his early yotith, and had even given 
evidence of it in some of his early poems. Long ago he had 
lost his innocence, and with his innocence had gone his 
faith. The first evil step taken, and unconfessed, the slip- 
pery path was easy to follow. Immorality was but a neces- 
sary experience of life ; the consorting with evil women but 
a help to the singing of love ! The loss of faith as a conse- 
quence of immorality is thus described by him in the 
preface to La Bonne Souff ranee : 

"I was brought up," he writes, "in a Christian manner, 
and after my first Communion I fulfilled my religious 
duties for several years with a fresh fervor. It was, I 
say it frankly, the crisis of adolescence and the shame to 
make certain avowals which made me give up my practices 
of piety. Many men who are in the same case will agree, 



156 GREAT PENITENTS 

if they are sincere, that that which first separates them 
from religion is the hard rule which it imposes on all in 
regard to the senses, and that later on they only ask from 
reason and science the metaphysical arguments which 
permit them to free themselves of all restraint. For me at 
least such was the case. I ceased to practice my religion 
from shame, and all my evil came from this first fault 
against humility, which seems to me decidedly the most 
necessary of all the virtues. This step taken, I did not 
fail to read on the way many books, to hear many words, 
and to see many examples destined to convince me that 
nothing is more legitimate for man than to obey his pride 
and sensuality; and quickly I became almost indifferent to 
all religious feeling. My case, you see, is a very vulgar 
one. It was the cheap desertion of the soldier from disci- 
pline. I did not, surely, hate the banner under which I 
had served ; I had fled from it and forgotten it, that was 
all." 

During that first illness grace was trying to enter the 
heart of the impure, bad Catholic. He tells us that always 
the thought of dying without the priest was terrible to him. 
But he turned his mind to poetry even in his illness and 
gave no heed to the affairs of his soul. In the April of 
1870 he met with a second great success in the theatre with 
the production of his Deux Douleurs, a success which doubt- 
less contributed no little to the restoration of his health. 
Then came the War of 1870, and we find him shouldering 
the gun of the national guard, while at the same time he 
gave his best talents to the production of patriotic poetry 
which brought him new popularity. A new success in the 
theatre gave him an assured position among the dramatists, 
and he also proved by his Une Idylle Pendant Le Siege 
and in subsequent books that he was a master of prose as 
well as of poetry. But Coppee's true fame came to him 
in 1872 with the publication of Les Humbles, poetry of the 



FKAtfCOIS COPPEE 157 

people and for the people. It gave him his name of "Poet 
of the Humble," and sealed him as a true poet. 

Surely the poet's father would have rejoiced could he 
have foreseen what fruit would be born by his lessons in 
love for the lowly. But he would have grieved, too, had he 
seen how far this fame woiild take his child away from 
God. For Coppee restored to health, and become a popular 
idol, was again the Coppee whose life was such that he was 
afraid to go to confession. Back he went to his mistresses 
and his sins. There was little thought then of the terrible 
misfortune of dying unshriven. Even the death of his 
idolized mother in 1874, while it almost drove him to 
despair, did not shock him out of his immoralities. "I 
have been," he wrote, "the witness of this simple and 
noble life, and it is, I am sure, because I have grown up 
near this admirable woman who had all strength and gentle- 
ness, that the flower of sensibility blooms in my heart and 
in my imagination, and that I have become a poet." 

Rather a pagan memorial, one would say, but it was the 
memorial of one who had lost touch with grace. Later on, 
when he came back to the faith which had made his mother 
truly great, he wrote thus with all the sensibility of the true 
Catholic soul: 

"When she died she was seventy-one years old and I 
was thirty-three. I was then a man — a man who had lived, 
worked, had pleasure, suffered, gone through the flame of 
passions many times, a man who doubtless had been faith- 
ful to his principal duties, but guilty of many faults, alas, 
and without innocence. Certainly my mother knew it. 
She had known how to encourage my efforts, how to excuse 
my weaknesses; she had her share in my joys, and coun- 
seled me in the hours of distress. But if, woman of manly 
intelligence, and of a judgment high and sure, she spoke 
to me as to a man when I asked her advice, I became to 
her — adorable illusion ! her child, her poor little child 



158 GKEAT PENITENTS 

when I had need only of her love." "How many suffer- 
ings," he writes again, "how many sorrows I have caused 
her, that adorable woman. Not that she could ever doubt 
for a single instant my respect and my love, God forbid ! 
But one is young, one falls foul of life driven by the fierce 
wind of desire, and one forgets that there is at the family 
hearth, and all too often abandoned, a poor old mother — 
full of indulgence, indeed, who scarcely dares to address 
to her big son a timid reproach, but who is alarmed at the 
dangers he courts, w 7 ho suffers at seeing him lose his white- 
ness, his purity — and who weeps. May this page fall 
under the eyes of some young man and stop him at the edge 
of a serious fall ! If he knew what bitterness it is for the 
soul later on, toward the end of life, to think that though 
he has not been a bad man, though he may have nothing 
serious to reproach himself with, yet he has made his 
mother weep !" 

But it was only afterwards that Coppee reproached him- 
self for the pain he had given his mother by his life of sin 
and lack of faith. It was not to religion he turned for 
solace at her death, but to poetry. His heart was far from 
conversion. He worked hard with his pen and produced 
many important works which in 1876 won for him the 
cross of the Legion of Honor. That same year he gave to 
the stage of the Comedie Frangaise le Luthier De Cre- 
mone which was a great success then and still holds an hon- 
ored place in the repertoire of that institution. That same 
year, too, the poet fell in love with a girl of seventeen 
whom he had met at Geneva. He sought to marry her, but 
the girl's mother, a widow who had fancied that the famous 
poet had been smitten with herself, was indignant at the 
proposal and hurried her daughter off from what she was 
now pleased to regard the contaminating presence of this 
man. How deep the attachment was it is hard to say now, 
even though the poet's biographers see in his subsequent 
poetry the results of his pure and unrequited love. It 



FEANCOIS C O P P E E 159 

furnished him with an ideal — in poetry; it did not turn 
him to the task of cleaning out his defiled soul. 

One need not go into the details of those mature years 
of Coppee's genius. New books of poems, new plays, so 
many and so successful that he seemed to have devoted 
himself entirely to the theatre, and then the masterly 
critiques of the drama which from 1880 he contributed to 
Patrie at the time he was librarian-archivist of the Conie- 
die, a position he resigned later on account of a falling out 
with the actor Coquelin. His excellent literary work 
caused him to be elected a member of the French Academy 
in 1884. The honor only spurred him on to new zeal in 
writing. His productivity was marvelous. He wrote 
everything and adorned everything he touched — comedy, 
drama, lyric, poetry, descriptive poetry, elegy, lieder, 
romance, short story, novel, critique, articles, prefaces ; the 
entire field of literature was his, and when in 1892 he 
w^as made commander of the Legion of Honor, his readers, 
innumerable truly, for he was the poet of all social classes, 
agreed that he well deserved the distinction. 

In a worldly sense this was the crowning of the poet of 
the humble. But the most glorious event in the life of 
Coppee was the spiritual victory which he won over him- 
self and which led him back to God. He himself calls the 
memorable year of 1897 the time of his return to God. 
"Oh, it was cruel to me that year 1897 ! Is it not, I ask 
myself, the worst of my life ? No, no, O my God, it is the 
best." Surely the best for his soul, for in that year he 
refound his Catholic faith. In the preface to La Bonne 
Souffrance, that beautiful book which was the result of 
his conversion, he relates the experiences of his soul. After 
telling how 7 he had lost the faith by his immorality he pro- 
ceeds to give the account of its refinding: "Today when 
I have refound the faith I ask myself if I had ever abso- 
lutely lost it. One will meet in my writings some rare 
pages which I disown and detest, where I have spoken of 



160 GKEAT PENITENTS 

religious things with a foolish lightness, sometimes even 
with the most culpable boldness ; one will seek in vain for 
a blasphemy. When by chance I entered a church, respect 
met me on the threshold and accompanied me to the altar. 
Always the ceremonies of the worship moved me by their 
venerable character of antiquity, their harmonious pomp, 
their solemn and penetrating poetry. Never did I put my 
finger in the cold water of the holy water stoup without 
trembling with a strange shiver which was perhaps that of 
remorse." A little of the Christian faith, he thinks, al- 
ways slept at the bottom of his heart, as evident in the res- 
ignation with which he met the disappointments of life, 
its poverty and misery, which never drew from him a cry 
of rebellion. 

"This conversion, as it is fitting to call it," he writes, 
"was rapid without a doubt, but not quite sudden nor 
accompanied by extraordinary circumstances. Yet I ought 
to attribute it to Divine grace; for when I compare my 
moral state of other days to that in which I have found 
myself for some months now, I am astounded before such a 
change and it seems to me miraculous. The benefit which 
I have gathered is within the reach of all. To obtain it, 
it is sufficient to demand it with a humble and submissive 
heart." 

Often in the days when Coppee had withdrawn himself 
from the presence of God he was tormented by the prob- 
lems of life and death, of pain and tears. None of the 
solutions offered by men had satisfied him ; he had thought 
it absurd to think that good or evil done in this life would 
have consequences only in this life. Thus he always felt 
the need of God. "My conscience," he says, "especially for 
some years, became more exacting. Every time that I 
happened to think of my last end, to judge myself as one 
day God would judge me, I was not content with myself. 
When I reviewed my past I often had to blush, and I 
felt weighing me down the heavy burden of my sins. By 



FKANCOIS COPPEE 161 

weakness, by cowardice, I did not reform my conduct ; but 
it is necessary to believe, I repeat, that there was in me 
a foundation of Christianity, for often in thought I made 
a sort of act of contrition ; and that there was also a foun- 
dation of Catholicism, for every death seemed terrible to 
me which was not preceded by a confession and an abso- 
lution." 

How the conversion came about is best described in 
Coppee's own words. "The God of indulgence and of good- 
ness," he writes, "reserved for me something better than a 
hasty and trembling repentance in extremis. In the month 
of January, 1897, during a sojourn at Pau where, suffer- 
ing for several months, I had fled the winter, I suddenly 
had to summon my surgeon from Paris and submit to a 
serious operation. I then made myself perfectly under- 
stand the danger which threatened me, and I prayed the 
excellent Dominican Sister who watched at my bedside — 
and to whom I have given a remembrance in this book — 
to go and get a confessor in case my condition became 
worse. But my friend, Doctor Duchastelet, saved my 
life that first time, and I thought no more of anything but 
the speedy and complete cure which was promised me. The 
warning was clear to me, but it was not heeded, and I blush 
today in recalling my culpable indifference and my foolish 
levity. . . . The improvement in my physical condition 
was of short duration. At the beginning of the month of 
June a new attack more severe than the first set me again 
at the threshold of death. This relapse condemned me 
to keep a suffering immovability for many days. The 
sufferings were terrible. Then only did my soul turn to 
graver thoughts. Judging myself with a scrupulous sever- 
ity, I was disgusted with myself, I was horrified at myself, 
and this time the priest came, he to whom this book is 
dedicated. I had known him a long time, but not inti- 
mately. In meeting him at the house of friends I had 
been charmed only by his exquisite gentleness and his rare 



162 GREAT PENITENTS 

distinction of soul. He is now one of the men whom I 
love most in the world, my dear .counselor, the intimate 
visitor of my soul, and my father in Jesus Christ. I con- 
fessed to him in tears of the most sincere repentance, I 
received absolution with an ineffable comfort. But when 
the priest spoke of bringing Holy Communion to me, I 
hesitated, full of trouble, not feeling myself worthy of 
the sacrament. The danger of death was not imminent. The 
man of God did not insist. 'Pray only/ said he, 'and read 
the Gospel.' During the weeks and months passed in 
bed and in my room, I have lived with the Gospel; and 
little by little each line of the holy book has become living 
for me and has convinced me that it speaks the truth. Yes, 
in all the words of the Gospel I have seen the truth shine 
as a star, I have felt it beat as a heart. How disbelieve 
henceforth in miracles and mysteries when there was ac- 
complished in me a transformation so deep and so mys- 
terious ? For my soul was blind to the light of faith, and 
now it sees it in all its splendor; it was deaf to the word 
of God, and today it hears it in its persuasive softness; 
it was paralyzed by indifference, and now it lifts itself to 
the heavens with all its power of flight; and the impure 
demons that troubled it and possessed it are forever put 
to flight. You shrug your shoulders, proud ones swelled 
up with vain learning. What difference to me? I will 
not even ask you to explain to me how the word of a hum- 
ble workman of Galilee confided by him to some poor 
people with the command to teach it to all nations, re- 
sounds victoriously yet after nineteen centuries wherever 
man is no more a barbarian. All that I know is that this 
same word, heard and understood by me in cruel hours, 
had that prodigious virtue to make me love my sufferings. 
I go forth from trial physically weak and destined to sub- 
mit probably to the end to the slavery of an infirmity very 
painful. But because I have read and meditated on the 
Gospel my heart is not only resigned but full of calm and 



F E A X C O I S C O P P E E 163 

courage. Not two years ago, having still some health, but 
experiencing already the first attacks of age, I saw with 
terror old age coming, solitary old age, with its cortege 
of sadness, disgust and regrets. Today let it come upon 
me prematurely; I embrace it with firmness, let me say 
almost with joy, for if I do not ask for sufferings and 
death, at least I do not fear them, having learned in the 
Gospel the art of suffering and dying. " 

When Coppee did submit it was an entire submission, 
the submission of a little child ready to be told what to 
do. "A compelling desire," he says, "pushed me towards 
God. I did not resist. I let myself be led; in a word, 
I have obeyed, and today I taste the delights of obedience." 

Answering those who used to say to him that nothing 
in him seemed changed since his conversion, he writes: 
"They only prove in this way how impenetrable man is to 
man; for I myself know very well that I have become 
another man. It is clear that the fact of saying my prayers 
morning and night, of going to church on Sundays and 
holy days and fulfilling my religious duties has not sensi- 
bly modified my apparent life. Clearly one does not read 
on my forehead either the reforms which I have been able 
to effect in my actions and my thoughts, or the resistance 
which now I oppose to the temptations to which formerly 
I would have succumbed. It is, nevertheless, the exact 
truth. That they do not find me changed — I am not 
astonished at that after all ; for my progress in the Chris- 
tian life, that is to say towards moral perfection, is still 
vfery weak. However, I have become as severe as possible 
with myself; those whom I loved I love better and other- 
wise than formerly, and make constant efforts to become 
more charitable, better. Yet, notwithstanding the too 
numerous defects in my conduct, and that of which I 
accuse myself with more sorrow — in spite of some last 
attacks of doubt and dryness of heart, I displease myself 
less than formerly, and very often when I think of the 



164 GEEAT PENITENTS 

saddened days which remain for me to live and the death 
that approaches I experience a sentiment of sweetness 
which surprises myself. This peace of soul is obtained 
only by the admirable discipline of religion, by the exam- 
ination of the conscience and by prayer. Thus I have no 
better moments than those wherein I address myself to God, 
in offering to Him the repentance for my past sins and all 
my good will for the future, and wherein I ask of Him 
that peace w T hich He has promised to us in the next life 
and of which His grace gives us in this world the delight- 
ful presentiment. Yes, there is nothing so truly beautiful 
as the hour when one prays, when one puts himself in the 
presence of God. A hundred times, then, be the suffering 
blessed which has brought me back to Him. For I know 
Him now, the Unknowable! The Gospel has revealed 
Him to me. He is the Father, He is my Father.'' 

It was not strange that this new peace of soul began to 
find expression in the weekly articles which for some time 
he had been contributing to the Journal. It was thus that 
the essays, "sublime in their simplicity," later on collected 
under the title La Bonne Souff ranee, were written, scrib- 
bled in pencil as he lay "bound with bandages like a 
mummy of ancient Egypt," as he describes it, his feverish 
head against the pillow. In one of those papers he wrote, 
referring to his mother : "Never did I so often call forth 
the memory of my mother as during this sickness and this 
long convalescence which has inspired me with so many 
serious meditations. It is in stammering after so many 
years the prayers my mother taught me in my infancy 
that my soul has sought to lift itself to God. It is in the 
hope of seeing my mother once more that I wish to believe 
in life eternal. Oh, how I thought of my mother that day 
when to merit the reward of finding her again in Heaven 
I promised that the time left me to live would be filled 
with dreams more pure and actions more worthy." 

Another memento of that wonderful year was the little 



FKAXCOIS COPPEE 165 

essay Au-Dessus Du Nuage, wherein Coppee likened his 
struggle towards the faith to the climbing of the mountain : 
"Scarcely had I taken the first step when already the mist 
of pride and impurity which hid from me the good 
way disappeared. Higher still, my soul ! Always higher ! 
Above all that we see of the sky! What memories have 
I called up all at once ! On the mountain I climbed only 
toward the sun. Today I lift myself towards a bright- 
ness incomparably more dazzling; for according to the 
beautiful saying of Michael Angelo — the sun is only the 
shadow of God." 

If Coppee had done no more than this little book of his 
confessions, or expression of his faith in the Catholic 
Church, he would still be a classic. Excellent, the articles 
were considered as they appeared from week to week, but 
it was only when they came out in book form with the 
wonderful preface, which may be called the apologia of his 
conversion, that their true beauty, their spiritual unity 
was discovered. It is this book which makes Coppee de- 
serve to be studied as a great apologist, a great convert. 
It is a soul-study, valuable in itself apart from the literary 
genius of the popular poet. He had thought the articles 
ephemeral things, but — "Some persons," he writes, "whose 
advice is very precious to me, counsel me today to gather 
these pages wherein I have confessed to my readers my 
return to God. Hence this little book wherein one will 
find neither plan nor composition, for it is only a collec- 
tion of newspaper articles, but which will awaken, I hope, 
a little sympathy in Christian souls, and will not be useless 
to those — they are many — who having let scatter the be- 
liefs of their young years regret them towards the end of 
their life without having, however, the courage to ask 
God to give them that interior strength. It is especially 
with a view to these troubled souls, for whom doubt is the 
soft pillow of whicli Montaigne speaks, and who stop, so 
to speak, at the edge of faith, that I place at the beginning 



166 GEE AT PENITENTS 

of this book the simple narrative of the moral revolution 
which happened in me. Long have I been as they, and 
I have suffered from the same disease. I offer them the 
remedy which has cured me." 

Not only in La Bonne Souff ranee did Coppee give ex- 
pression to his deep sense of sin, his regret for the past 
years of forgetfulness of God. It was eminently fitting 
that his last volume of poems — Dans la Priere and Dans 
la Lutte — should express in beautiful poetry what he had 
already expressed in prose. Thus in Le Devoir Nouveau 
he chants his hymn of repentance: "Then in the suffer- 
ings of age, when God with pity for me showed to my soul, 
before the shipwreck, the lighthouse of faith, my compan- 
ions have seen me change my life and, converted by suf- 
fering, become in repentance less impure, wiser and better. 
And more than one no doubt has envied me, Christian full 
of serene hope, traveler finishing my journey in the sweet 
peace of a beautiful evening; poet whose last work would 
show to an astonished world the grateful prayer of a poor, 
pardoned sinner: and an old man whose head bends low, 
seeing in the field of rest a divine brightness shine among 
the tombstones.' 5 

It is a similar thought that is expressed in this won- 
derfully beautiful poem — UE table, wherein he describes 
in matchless verse the mystery of Christmas night. 
" 'Dreams, fancies,' said the laughing sceptic; 'a fabulous 
legend, a tale of the Orient.' Ah, I have denied as he. 
Pardon, veritable God ! My soul was then the corrupt and 
dark stable open to Thy parents, the poor travelers. For, 
alas, in the least culpable sinner there is in desire and 
thought only secret shame and heaped up refuse. In my 
soul dwelt a common, loiv vice, like to a vile animal wallow- 
ing on his dunghill. And in the unwholesome darkness, 
filled with miasma, remorse, a monstrous spider, waited 
for me. But Jesus to whom now I pray on my knees was 
born in a place not less defiled. If the least thrill of re- 



FRANCOIS COPPEE 167 

peutance penetrates into a heart saturated with evil, God 
can be born there. I knew this hope and this truth one 
blessed day when sorrow visited me. I prayed, asking 
pardon for my sins. Humbly I reopened to the God of 
my childhood my soul, that dwelling impure and dark. He 
deigned to descend thither, and, generous master, who 
gives even to the late worker a reward, today He reigns 
there, perfumes it and brightens it. Prayers, Sacraments, 
O ineffable blessings! As the stable to the eyes of the 
dazzled shepherds shone with a wonderful and sudden 
brightness, so my soul shines now that God dwells there. 
On the blue night where sounds the Christmas hymn, the 
dark roof opens which had hid the heavens from me ; and 
hideous remorse, the spider in his net, shines suddenly and 
becomes a star." So, too, the poem, Dans Une Eglise de 
Village. It is a prayer for faith, a prayer of faith. It 
is one of the most beautiful things Coppee ever wrote, 
this prayer of "the soul of an old sinner, late converted." 
The conversion of Coppee was not a passing experience. 
There had been, as he says, a moral revolution in his soul. 
He was never done after that giving thanks to God for 
His goodness to him in opening his eyes to the terrible 
condition of his soul. Henceforth there never left his 
singing the strain of the penitential psalm. He was seek- 
ing to redeem the time, showing himself thoroughly Catho- 
lic in all things, proud to confess the faith to which he 
had been so long indifferent. He had been a sinner; his 
wish now was to be a true penitent. He found at hand the 
way to atone. God Himself chose the discipline for him. 
Those last years were years of bitter suffering. But there 
was no rebellion. Suffering was sweet. He had learned 
to kiss the cross. At the end of his life he could write 
in truth : 

I have conquered my old pride and unbelief, 
And all in tears, extending my hands to the cross, 
I dare to say, My God, I love you, I believe. 



168 GEEAT PENITENTS 

A few weeks before his death he was asked by the direc- 
tor of the Mercure de France what his^conception of reli- 
gion was. In his letter he answered: "This one word — 
Credo." 

To believe, to love, to suffer, to repent: that was the 
secret of life discovered by the poet on his bed of pain. 
That secret he would share with all the world in his zeal 
to let men know what a folly sin is. 

"I have been like to you/' he wrote, "poor sinner of the 
troubled soul, O my brother. As you, I was then very 
miserable and I sought by instinct a confidant full of 
clemency and tenderness. I found Him. Do as I have 
done. Open your Gospels, and return to the Cross." 



J. K. HUYSMANS 

A STRANGE being was Huysmans. A lashing critic, 
with a tongue like a two-edged sword even after 
'"his conversion, a man who had plumbed the depths 
of iniquity and who afterwards aimed at the peaks of sanc- 
tity, who consorted with demons and then with mystics, 
and at last biting the dust in penitence gave his body a 
willing victim to the most excruciating pain — no wonder 
this most individual man, even apart from his literary 
genius, is still regarded as an enigma. One can understand 
how the disciples of the world regard his life as a puzzle ; 
it is hard, however, to see how Catholics, many of them, 
still look on him as a suspect. For to study the man is to 
come face to face with sincerity if ever there was such a 
thing. One of Huysmans' biographers says that the 
Church has not failed to make a great racket about his 
conversion. Not such a racket as might have been made, 
as should have been made ; for Huysmans, strange apolo- 
gist though he is, is nevertheless one of the greatest of mod- 
ern apologists. Full of faults he is, with many a line in 
his apologetics that might well have been eliminated ; but 
there is no use complaining about that, you must take 
Huysmans as he is. A petty critic he is at times; your 
convert is very apt to be hypercritical. These are but 
flimsy clouds before the sun. And underneath all one 
finds the burning heart of the great penitent who with 
Augustine could cry out — "Too late have I loved Thee, 
O Beauty, so ancient and so new." 

George Joris Karl Huysmans — he dropped the name 
George at the publication of his first book and afterwards 

169 



170 GKEAT PENITENTS 

was known merely as J. K. Huysmans — was born at Paris 
February 5, 1848. The Huysmans were a family of art- 
ists. Everybody in the family, said Huysmans, from 
father to son, painted. We find at least four of these 
Flemish painters of the name in Antwerp in the seven- 
teenth century. The most noted of these ancestors was 
Cornelius, some of whose pictures are in the Louvre, a 
very facile painter whose canvases were widely scattered. 
One of J. K.'s uncles was for a time professor at the 
academies of Breda and of Tilburg. The artist blood 
thinned out the nearer it came to J. K, for his father, 
Gotfried, who came from Breda in Holland to Paris, 
was but an illuminator of missals, and the like small 
work. Still, if J. K. did not inherit the ancestral tech- 
nique he was at heart an artist. There never was a better 
critic, a more honest critic. And as has been often said, 
if he did not paint pictures he was at least one of the 
greatest word-painters in all literature. The inherited 
artistry was but manifested in another way. One thing he 
did inherit from his father was a generous supply of bile. 
Gotfried was discontented with his lot in life ; it explains 
somewhat the pessimistic strain in his son. There was 
another ancestral strain which in due time had its influ- 
ence upon him. Strange to say, it was the strain of 
piety. Gotfried's sisters were nuns in Holland. When 
Huysmans came to try to explain his conversion he did 
not omit reference to the ancestral piety which was some- 
how in the blood even during the long years that he re- 
garded religion as a poor, foolish thing. 

Whatever borrowed glory there was on the paternal 
side, there was none on the maternal. His mother, whose 
name was Badin, belonged to the bourgeosie, a self-reliant 
woman who after the death of her husband in 1856, when 
J. K. was eight years old, supported herself by sewing 
and soon had a workshop of her own. 

The youth of Huysmans was not that of the precocious 



J. K. HUTSMANS 171 

literary genius. Neither at the Hortus, the boarding school 
to which he first went, nor later at the St. Louis Lyceum, 
did he amaze his professors with his talent. He was far 
from being a brilliant scholar — just enough to get his 
B. A. in his graduation from the Lyceum in 1866 at the 
age of eighteen. 

Even then Huysmans did not know what he wanted to 
do in life. He enrolled himself in the Law School, and 
passed the examinations. But that did not appeal to 
him, and he gave up the law to enter the ministry of the 
Interior ; but he cared little for that and only constrained 
himself to take up the work on the principle that of two 
evils one should choose the less. So Huysmans himself 
described his entrance into the ministry of the Interior, 
led thither by the advice of his maternal grandfather 
who was cashier there. He was then much of the dilet- 
tante frequenting the Latin Quarter, reading a great deal, 
wondering what his life should be, leading a hermit's life 
and having his fling at the pleasures of the world. There 
was nothing to keep the youth straight; he had been 
brought up with no religion whatever and, as he says 
later in the preface to A Rebours, it seemed entirely nat- 
ural to him to satisfy the senses. The Latin Quarter of 
those days besides its moral dangers had its political ones, 
too. There were gathered the young political firebrands 
who conspired for the overthrow of the Empire. But 
these had little appeal for J. K. ; in fact he was always 
indifferent to politics, considering that government the 
best which harmed nobody. 

Huysmans had been working in the ministry two years 
when the Franco-Prussian war broke out. He joined the 
Sixth Battalion of guards of the Seine, but did not serve 
long. He was taken sick and sent to Evreux where he 
remained for a time convalescing, and where he resigned 
as a soldier. He returned to the ministry of the Interior 
at. the time of the Commune at Versailles, and returned 



172 GKEAT PENITENTS 

with it to Paris in 1871. The only thing he got out of 
his service as a soldier was a bad stomach to which may 
be ascribed some of the pessimism of the future critic. 
Huysmans never liked the work in the ministry, but, 
strange to say — and it is a tribute to the man's capacity 
for application and hard work — he remained at the work 
for thirty years and was always regarded as a model 
employee; so much so that when in 1893 he was given the 
Cross of the Legion of Honor the mark of respect was 
more for his work as an employee of the government than 
for his great literary renown. It was he, too, who had con- 
ceived the justice of admitting to the Legion the faithful 
old employees of the government. Huysmans was at heart 
a traditionalist, though it may seem hard to make that 
statement agree with many of the things in his books. 
That he was nevertheless, and it helps, apart from the 
great explanation — the grace of God — to explain the steps 
to his conversion. One example of his traditionalism is 
seen in his love for the left side of the Seine. He would 
live no place else in Paris. He called the right side the 
demoniacal side where resided all that he hated; the men 
of prey, the theatrical crew, the feverish life, expense and 
luxury. A queer criticism coming from the naturalist 
Huysmans. 

Committed to this quasi-hermit existence — marriage 
never had any appeal for him even in the flush of youth — 
he sought enjoyment in writing. He loved the poetry of 
Villon best of all and spent his leisure making verses in 
imitation of his. He had no ambition then to be a writer ; 
or if he did it was in the far distance. At any rate he 
learned how to use his tools before he sought to exhibit 
his handiwork to the public. If any man ever wrote for 
the love of writing it was Huysmans, especially in the 
beginning. The hours of practise finally led to the pro- 
duction of some poems in prose which he collected under 
the title of Le Drageoir a Epices — The Box of Spices. 



J. K. HUYSMANS 173 

He submitted the manuscript to the publisher Hetzel, with 
whom his mother had business relations, but Hetzel was 
disgusted with the work and refused to publish it, sar- 
castically asking Huysmans if he was trying to arouse a 
rebellion against the French language and start another 
Commune. Evidently the vivid word painting, of which 
Huysmans even then showed himself the master, was 
lost on Hetzel. 

Nothing daunted by this rejection, Huysmans thought 
of going to Belgium and submitting the book to pub- 
lishers there, but chafing under that delay which seems 
interminable to the author with his first book he brought 
it out at his own expense in Paris in 1874. The little 
masterpiece w x as well received; for masterpiece it was, 
something new in the French perfection of literature, a 
perfection ready to become decadent. Theodore de Ban- 
ville called the book "a jewel of a master goldsmith, 
chiselled with a hand firm and light." 

The success spurred him to further effort. In 1876 he 
went to Brussels and remained there a month seeking a 
publisher for his first novel, Marthe, Histoire d J une Fille. 
He succeeded in having it published there, but later repub- 
lished it in Paris in 1879, where it was suppressed by 
the police. By this book the comparatively unknown writer 
entered the school of the naturalists, Balzac, Flaubert, 
Zola. Zola was not then the chief of that school — he was 
to become so with L'Assomoir. Huysmans, indeed, in those 
days, outdid Zola in realism, even though he may be 
called the first disciple of Zola. One thing about Huys- 
mans in distinction from Zola is that in all his naturalistic 
writings he never insulted the Church ; one other reason, 
no doubt, why he was able to submit to that same Church. 
But through many books he was the staunch naturalist. 
When in 1879 appeared his Les Soeurs Vatard it was 
dedicated to Zola, and being condemned by many of the 
anti-naturalists Zola rushed to its defence, a defence which 



174 GREAT PENITENTS 

was one for Huysmans and two for himself. The defence 
was necessary, for Zola was being eclipsed by Baudelaire 
who was already exercising a great influence upon Huys- 
mans. In fact, Baudelaire became the idol of Huysmans, 
and he was never done talking his praises. One can ex- 
plain Huysmans' bent to naturalism by the fact that he was 
naturally an insurgent. He must be original or nothing, 
even though, explain it as you will, he was fundamentally 
a traditionalist. He was, anyway, in letters an insurgent. 
The classics, like Corneille, Racine, Moliere, had no ap- 
peal for him ; he could not, would not read them. So he 
continued his realism. In 1880 appeared the Soirees de 
Median, a collection of young writers, as DeMaupassant, 
Henrique and Paul Alexis, all under the patronage of 
Zola. To the series Huysmans gave his Sac au Dos which 
had already been published in a Belgian review, reminis- 
cences of his short military career which added nothing to 
his literary reputation. 

Love of art was strong in Huysmans. A master now of 
French prose, he could give expression to his ideas as to 
what great art should be, and as a result he published 
Les Croquis Parisiens — Parisian Sketches — a critique of 
the pictures exhibited in the salons of 1870, 1880, 1881, 
1882. At once he was recognized as a great art critic, an 
honest critic, who was no cringing adorer of the past, a 
critic who did not hesitate to praise the unknown artist, 
and who took delight in coming to the defence of the 
painters who had been unjustly set aside. These critiques 
established Huysmans as one of the great masters of 
French prose. 

The year 1881 was a prolific one for Huysmans. He 
published Nana, Pot-Bouille, and finally En Menage. En 
Menage was a glorification of naturalism at a time when 
naturalism, or as it might be called, nakedness, nakedness 
physical and moral, was the pursuit of so many writers. 
Huysmans in 1885 could call this his chosen book — which 



J. K. HUYSMANS 175 

would show how far from the thought of conversion to 
God he then was. During those years there was nothing 
worth while to him but naturalism. In 1882 he published at 
Brussels A Vau-VEau which is called his chef d'oeuvre of 
naturalism. It is Huysmans in his most pessimistic strain. 
He sought therein to show life as unredeemably bad, the 
thesis being that "the life of man oscillates as a pendu- 
lum between pain and ennui." The hero, Folantin is a 
type, the Huysmans type which goes through all the subse- 
quent books of the author, whether as the Des Esseintes 
of A Rebours or the Durtal of La Bas and En Route. 

A Rebours appeared in 1884. The conversion of Huys- 
mans did not take place till some eight years after that. 
But it is not too far fetched to find the beginnings of the 
return to God in this book which marks his break with 
naturalism and the school of Zola. Baudelaire was having 
a subtle influence on Huysmans the naturalist. After hav- 
ing reached the summit of naturalism, or rather the depths, 
in A Vau-VEau he discovered, as he says, that naturalism 
ends in a cul-de-sac. He was saturated with realism. He 
was sick of it. The dilettante Des Esseintes in A Re- 
bours tried everything under the sun. He had come to 
the limits of physical and moral degeneracy. It was the 
same old theme of pessimism, the heart seeking its solace 
in sin and finding it not. Huysmans looked for something 
besides this naturalism. He did not know what he wanted. 
He knew only that he had gone into the blind alley and 
wanted to turn around and come to liberty. At any rate 
he was done with naturalism — in literature; not in his 
own life of the satisfaction of the passions. Zola was 
displeased at losing his pupil. "You strike a terrible 
blow at naturalism," he said bitterly. It was evident in 
A Rebours that Huysmans was seeking something. What 
it was even he did not know. At that time Jules Le- 
Maltre wrote: "After the 'Fleurs du MaV I said to 
Baudelaire, There is left for you now logically nothing 



176 GEEAT PENITENTS 

but the mouth of a pistol or the foot of the Cross.' Baude- 
laire chose the foot of the Cross; but the author of A 
Rebours, will he choose it?" 

Huysmans, too, chose the foot of the Cross, but eight 
years passed before he made his final decision. A Rebours 
had ended in pessimism, almost. But the final words 
were the heart cry of one who prayed to be delivered from 
the total despair which seemed ready to engulf him. 
"Lord," cried out Des Esseintes, "have pity on the Chris- 
tian who doubts, on the unbelieving who would believe, 
on the galley slave who embarks alone in the night under 
a firmament which the consoling beacons of old hope no 
longer brighten." 

In the preface to a later edition of this book Huysmans 
seeks to explain this religious appeal on the lips of one 
who scarcely knew what it meant. "I was not brought up 
in the religious schools," he writes, "but in a lyceum. I 
was not pious in youth, and that side of the remembrance 
of youth, of first Communion, of the education which so 
often holds a large place in a conversion, held none in 
mine. And what complicates the difficulty more, and 
disconcerts all analysis, is that when I wrote A Rebours 
I had not put a foot in a church, I knew not a practical 
Catholic, or any priest. I did not experience any divine 
touch inciting me to direct me to the Church ; I lived in 
my trough, tranquil. It seemed to me entirely natural 
to satisfy the senses, and the thought did not even come 
to me that this kind of tournament was forbidden. A 
Rebours appeared in 1884 and I went to be converted at 
La Trappe in 1892 — nearly eight years passed before the 
seeds of this book had risen; let us place two years, three 
even, of a work of grace, heavy, stubborn, sometimes sensi- 
ble ; there remain less than five years during which I do 
not remember to have felt any Catholic inclination, any 
regret of the life I led, any desire to reform it. Why then 
have I in a night been goaded on to a road that had been 



J. K. HUTS MANS 177 

lost for me ? I am absolutely powerless to say ; nothing, 
unless the prayers of nunneries and cloisters, prayers of 
the fervent Holland family which I otherwise scarcely 
knew, will explain the perfect unconsciousness of the last 
cry, the religious appeal of the last page of A Rebours." 

En Bade appeared in 1887, a book that need not be 
considered in the soul study of its author. 

It is only in 1891 that we can begin to trace the real 
conversion of Huysmans. And strange to say it begins 
with that truly terrible book La Bas. Interesting as a study 
of the depths to which man can descend — if one need such 
a study — and explanatory of much of the psychology of 
Huysmans — the world would be none the poorer if he had 
never written it. For one thing, even while it is not 
autobiographical in the strict sense of the word, it gives a 
hint of what the private life of Huysmans was during 
those years of darkness. Huysmans was Parisian to the 
core and he intended to enjoy all the pleasures that 
Paris could give him. 

He did enjoy them, for he tells us that his conversion 
let him escape from "a filthy time." Perhaps it is neces- 
sary to stress that point — of the animal existence of the 
man for so many years — in order to understand the long, 
hard way he had to travel when the grace of God came to 
him and set his face in the direction of home. La Bas 
still stands badly in need of expurgation. Yet this horri- 
ble book, this study in Satanism, by convincing him of 
the existence of spirits superior to man, was, strange to 
say, his first step to God. That book of 1891 was but 
the prelude to the conversion of 1892. 

How describe that conversion? It is quite impossible 
to put in words the psychology of it, for Huysmans him- 
self could not do so even in regard to his own soul and 
with his analytical mind. "Providence was merciful to 
me, and the Virgin was good," he wrote. "I was content 
not to oppose them when they declared their intentions. 



178, GREAT PENITENTS 

I have simply obeyed. I have been led by what is called 
'extraordinary ways.' " 

Yet even from the human point of view it was too great 
an experience for the realist not to make a book out of it. 
Thus in 1895 was given to the w T orld that truly remark- 
able book, En Route, in which Huysmans , traces the steps 
of his conversion to God in the character of Durtal who 
had figured so ignominiously in La Bas. There is no 
doubt that Huysmans wished to have himself regarded as 
described in the character of Durtal even though it is 
not wholly autobiographical, especially in the scenes of 
La Bas. 

During the octave of All Souls Durtal, who, with no 
religion to keep him back, had plumbed the depths of ini- 
quity, entered the church of St. Sulpice while the office 
of the dead was being chanted. The plain-chant took posses- 
sion of his soul. "That which seemed to him superior to 
the most vaunted works of theatrical or worldly music 
was the old plain-chant, that melody plain and naked, at 
the same time aerial and of the tomb." No one has writ- 
ten so beautifully of the music of the Church as Huys- 
mans. The art to which the Church has given birth made 
an appeal to his soul. "Ah," he cries out, "the true proof 
of Catholicism is this art which it has founded, this art 
which nothing has ever surpassed. In painting and sculp- 
ture it was the Primitives ; the mystics in poetry and the 
sequences; in music the plain-chant; in architecture, the 
Roman and the Gothic." 

The sermon ended, Durtal was brought back to earth 
again. "I should have tried to pray," he said; "that 
w T ould have been of more avail than to be lost there in my 
chair of empty reveries ; but pray ? I have no desire for 
it. I am haunted by Catholicism, intoxicated with its 
atmosphere of incense and wax. I roam around it, 
touched to tears by its prayers, impressed to the very mar- 
rows by its psalmody and its chants. I am very weary 



J. K. HUYSMANS 179 

of my life, very tired of myself, but it is another thing to 
lead another existence. And then — if I am disturbed in 
the churches, I become unmoved and dry as soon as I come 
out. At the bottom I have a heart hardened and burned 
by sensual indulgence. I am good for nothing." 

And this irreligious sensualist suddenly became a be- 
liever. 

How? Durtal asked himself. And he answered: "I 
do not know ; all that I know is that after having been for 
years an unbeliever, suddenly I believe." "I have heard," 
he continued, "of the sudden and violent upheaval of soul, 
of the clap of thunder, of the Faith making at the end 
an explosion in the ground which is slowly and learnedly 
mined. It is very evident that conversions can be effected 
according to one or other of these two methods, for God 
acts as seems good to Him, but there should be a third 
method which is doubtless the most ordinary, that which 
the Saviour used for me. And that consists in I know 
not what; it is somewhat analogous to the digestion of 
the stomach which works without one being sensible of it. 
There has been no Damascus road, no events which deter- 
mined a crisis ; nothing supervened, yet one fine morning 
one wakes and without knowing how or why the thing is 
done. . . . The only thing which seems sure to me is 
that there was in my case divine premotion — grace. I seek 
in vain to retrace my steps by which I have gone ; doubt- 
less I can discover on the route gone over some marking 
posts here and there; love of art, heredity, disgust with 
life; I can even recall forgotten sensations of childhood, 
little underground paths of ideas resurrected by my visits 
to the churches ; but what I cannot do is to bind together 
these threads, to group them in a bundle; what I cannot 
understand is the sudden and silent explosion of light 
which has taken place in me. When I try to explain to 
myself how, an unbeliever in the evening, I have become 
without knowing it a believer in one night, I can indeed 



ISO GKEAT PENITENTS 

discover nothing, for the heavenly action has disappeared 
without leaving any traces." 

"It is very certain," he says again, "that it is the Vir- 
gin who acts in these cases on us; it is She who kneads 
you and puts you into the Hands of Her Son; but her 
fingers are so light, so soft, so caressing, that the soul which 
they have refreshed has felt nothing. 

Nevertheless Durtal can find certain motives, or inclina- 
tions to a revival of faith. Piety was in the blood, it was 
ancestral; there were nuns in the family. It will be re- 
called that the sisters of his father were nuns in Holland. 

The second motive was the disgust with life, driving 
him to look for solace he knew not where, but knowing 
that irreligion and lust had brought no satisfaction. The 
third motive was the passion for art, for music, architec- 
ture, for all those beauties which the Church has cher- 
ished in her worship. 

The faith had come, but the struggle with sin had not 
ceased. Durtal believed, but Durtal's morals were the 
morals of La Bas and A Rebours. He relapsed into sin 
again and again. He was disgusted with himself after the 
sin, but he seemed powerless to resist the attractions of 
the old life. It was impossible for him to be continent! 
How reminiscent it is of the beginnings of the conversion 
of another great penitent — St. Augustine. 

Durtal had confided his secrets of soul to the Abbe 
Gevresin, who is none other than the real Abbe Mugnier, 
a curate at the church of St. Thomas d'Aquin, who was 
his dear friend and director. The abbe finally succeeded 
in prevailing upon Durtal, not without hard work, to 
make a retreat in a Trappist monastery. It was so that 
Huysmans, on the advice of Abbe Mugnier, went to little 
Trappe of Notre Dame d'Igny. It is a touching avowal 
which Durtal makes to his God before setting out for his 
retreat. "My soul is a bad place ; it is sordid and of bad 



J. K. HUYSMAUS 181 

character ; up to now it has loved only perversion ; it has 
exacted of my miserable body the tithe of illicit delights 
and undue joys ; it is not worth much, it is worth nothing; 
and yet, down there near Yon, if You will help me, I 
know well that I will make something of it ; but my body, 
if it is sick I cannot force it to obey me ! that is worse 
than all, that ! I am helpless if You do not come to my 
aid." 

But God did come to the aid of the penitent who was 
so distrustful of his own weakness. Anyway, decided 
Durtal, "There are many who go to Bareges or to Vichy 
to cure their bodies, why should not I go to cure my soul 
in a Trappist monastery?" 

The description of the state of soul of Durtal during 
that retreat, his struggle with himself, with the powers of 
darkness, with old memories, the awful agony of his gen- 
eral confession, make a soul study that cannot be sur- 
passed. It is realism at its height. 'No resume of En 
Route can be given; one might as well try to give a 
synopsis of the Imitation. Durtal made his confession and 
found peace for his soul. In the same way Huysmans 
made his confession and found peace. Confession always 
was to him one of the most opportune and beneficial insti- 
tutions. Somewhere in En Route he says : "Conf ession 
is an admirable Godsend, for it is the most sensible touch- 
stone there could be for souls, the most intolerable act 
which the Church has imposed on the vanity of man." 
Once a friend of his, a man of letters who was obsessed by 
certain scruples before he submitted to the faith, came to 
him with his difficulties. "You believe," said Huysmans, 
"that the priest before whom you kneel to tell your sins 
holds the place of our Saviour Jesus Christ, and that he 
will pardon you in His Name ? You also believe that in 
the Mass the priest immolates Jesus Christ and that the 
Host with which he communicates you is Jesus Christ 



182 GEEAT PENITENTS 

Himself ?" "Yes," answered the other, "I believe that." 
"Very well, then," said Huysmans, "go to confession 
and Communion and all will arrange itself." 

Huysmans had taken the great step. He had humbled 
his soul and thus had found that his only strength was in 
God. "If anyone," he once said, "could have the certi- 
tude of the nothingness he would be without the aid of 
God, it would be I." That lesson of his own nothing- 
ness he had learned in his sojourn at the monastery. 
The monks made a great impression upon him and he 
might have become one had his health permitted. But 
God had other work for him to do. 

Huysmans was forty-four years of age at the time of 
his conversion. Up to then his life had been spent far 
from God. It had been a wasted, criminal life. Not only 
had he befouled his own soul with immoralities, but in 
describing them in his shockingly naturalistic books he had 
brought harm to other souls. He could not cast aside now 
the talent which he had misused; he must use it for the 
good of souls and seek to undo some of the harm he had 
done. He must redeem the time. 

Leaving his retreat and returning to Paris he placed 
himself under the direction of Abbe Feret of St. Sulpice, 
to who La Cathedrale is dedicated. Under his guidance 
Huysmans undertook to retrace the steps of his conversion 
in the epoch-making En Route. The book appeared in 
1895. No book ever caused greater discussion. It was 
bitterly attacked and as bitterly defended. Frankly, it 
had scandalized many Catholics. It was too free in its 
criticisms, hypercritical criticisms many of them; it was 
too harsh, and too free in its dealing with sacred things. 
Huysmans could not get rid of naturalism, even though in 
his converted state the realism was spiritualized. It was 
declared by Catholics as well as by the freethinkers who 
sought to make light of the great conversion that Huys- 
mans was still the grand poser, that he w r as not sincere 



J. K. HUYSMANS 183 

in his return to religion but had merely turned to mysti- 
cism because he had exhausted every other subject. In 
plain words it was said that he was a hypocrite, the 
worst kind of hypocrite, he who pretends to religion to 
make capital of it. He was even compared to Leo Taxil 
with the miserable Diana Vaughan hoax. All this deeply 
pained the heart of the convert, for if any man ever was 
sincere it was Huysmans. The pain was all the greater 
as he realized that some of the most violent attacks came 
from the Catholics whom he sought to serve. The Abbe 
Belleville went so far as to write a book — Le Conversion 
de M. Huysmans — in which he made bold to express his 
doubts as to the sincere conversion of the writer, his argu- 
ment being that if he had been sincere he would have 
destroyed his former scandalous books instead of con- 
tinuing to make money out of them. Another argument 
was that Huysmans dealt with sacred things in a repug- 
nant manner. The argument was not without founda- 
tion. It is going too far, however, to accuse Huysmans 
of making money out of his evil books. That never entered 
his mind. Perhaps it was quite an impossible task to cor- 
rect the books that were so widespread. Rest assured 
that Huysmans had given the matter serious consideration 
and only after viewing it from every angle had decided 
to let things as they were. 

A certain ecclesiastic, a friend of his — Huysmans had 
many sincere friends among the priests — suggested to him 
that certain passages in En Route should be eliminated. 
"Perhaps today," answered Huysmans, "I would hesitate 
to write them. But I must avow it would be a mistake 
to eliminate them. They testify to the truth of the book. 
It is because it is true that it has a religious influence on 
souls." It was an action different from that of another 
great convert, Paul Feval, who had burned or corrected 
the books of his unregenerate life. Huysmans, in a word, 
left his untouched as a history of his state of soul. It 



184 GEEAT PENITENTS 

goes without saying that En Route made many conver- 
sions, still makes them. It was the realization of this that 
cleared the mind of Abbe Ferret. He heard so many 
attacks made on the book, by good men even, that he, too, 
great as was his confidence in Huysmans, began to doubt. 
One day, however, a sinner came to him to confession. It 
was a striking conversion, and the Abbe asked what had 
led the man back to God. The answer was that conversion 
had come after reading En Route. This with other cases 
of conversion effected by reading of the soul struggles of 
the great realist, convinced the Abbe that in spite of some 
evident shortcomings the "confessions" of Huysmans were 
designed to do in modern times what the confessions of St. 
Augustine had been doing for many centuries. 

Today we know that there should have been no suspicion 
of his conversion. He was not a merely literary convert, 
merely drawn to religion as to an unexplored field. He 
had become a practical Catholic, living the Christian life 
with ever new zeal, delighting to visit the churches of 
Paris, praying in the old shrines of the faith so wonderful 
to him, reading the mystics, listening to the plain chant 
of the Church as to the music of Heaven, visiting the 
monasteries which he loved so much that he would have 
wished to become a monk had he not been advised by his 
spiritual directors that he should serve God with his pen. 
What his life was in those days is seen in a letter of his to 
Gu stave Coquiot, one of his biographers. Coquiot had 
written to him in 1896 asking him to express his views on 
literature and society. Huysmans answered: "My joys 
of the present — to follow the canonical hours in a cloister, 
to ignore that which passes at Paris, to read books on 
liturgy and mysticism, iconography and symbolism. To 
see as little as possible of men of letters and as much as 
possible of monks. ... I feel myself removed from 
active life, and my books appear to me now as those of 
others — vain." 



J. K. HUYSMAXS 185 

Huysmans, the convert, showed the literary world that in 
leaving the world of fleshy naturalism he had lost none of 
his wonderful talent; indeed, his genius is more evident 
in the books he made after he had seen the light of faith. 
It was said that he had discovered that he had the whole 
of Heaven to plumb. Nothing now appealed to him but 
that same Heaven. The three years following the publi- 
cation of En Route were spent in putting together the 
documents he had gathered about the Cathedral of Char- 
tres. It was a true labor of love. He never thought that 
the book would find many readers. But when La Cathe- 
drale appeared in 1898 it found as many readers as En 
Route* In the same way, too, it was attacked and de- 
fended. Even then the doubts as to his conversion per- 
sisted. Lucien Descaves, who has written so sympatheti- 
cally of his friend, relates that many people asked him, 
knowing that he was one of the few who had the entree 
to the home of the popular writer, if Huysmans was 
really sincere or if his conversion was not just a caprice of 
art. It was hard to kill the old slander. Descaves was 
indignant. He called the suspicion a gratuitous affront 
done to an honest man, to a man the least capable of 
deception he had ever known. His loyalty, said Descaves, 
actually shone. Today at any rate La Cathedrale, this 
example of naturalism spiritualized, has its sure place 
as a classic. If Huysmans had done nothing but this he 
would deserve the lasting gratitude of his fellow Catholics. 

In the same year Huysmans received a pension from 
the government on account of his services in the ministry. 
This removed many of his financial worries and gave him 
more time to devote to his religious books. He was now 
particularly interested in the study of liturgy which was 
to be the basis of the last book of a trilogy. En Route had 
dealt with mysticism, La Cathedrale with symbolism. To 
allow himself to become saturated with liturgy he decided 
to make his residence in the vicinity of the abbey of 



186 GEEAT PENITENTS 

Liguge near Vienne. With some friends of his he bought 
a lot of land there and had a house built after his own 
designs, which he called Maison Notre Dame. Once estab- 
lished there he set about getting ready to make his profes- 
sion as Oblate. His literary work consisted in the prepa- 
ration of the life of St. Lydwine and he made a short 
trip to Schiedam to get the locale of his story and to make 
certain investigations. But it was not all literary work. 
His chief work in those days was to sanctify his soul. The 
cloister appealed to him, and again he would have sought 
to be admitted, but the necessity that would follow of 
being obliged to submit his writing to censure deterred 
him; he felt that he would be able to do greater good as 
a free lance in literature. Every morning he assisted at 
the High Mass, no matter how great the heat or the cold, 
and prayed there full of faith, lost in deep meditation, 
so earnest and simple in his religion that the religious 
as well as the peasants were edified by him. He would 
leave the church only when the monks left. He mingled 
with the monks a great deal, not letting a day pass with- 
out seeing them, learning all that he could from them, 
especially in the matter of liturgy which now greatly occu- 
pied his attention. Descaves who visited him there tells 
of watching him across the fields, his head bowed, his 
prayer book under his arm, the bells of the old abbey 
calling him away from the literary work which was inter- 
rupted only by the need of assisting at the offices. After 
Mass he would return to the house and talk with his friends 
of other things than those which really interested him. 
Descaves says that the spirit of proselytism was seen 
only in his books, not in his conversation with his friends. 
It seemed to be an ideal life for Huysmans, but at 
last he tired of it. He was homesick for Paris, for he was 
Parisian to the core always and it was hard for him to 
live elsewhere. He never liked the country, he had a 
kind of inbred aversion for the peasants. He was never 



J. K. HIT YS MANS 187 

a lover of nature, and even the sun exasperated him, due 
no doubt to the growing affection of his eyes. 

In February, 1901, he published Sainte Lydwine de 
Schiedam. That, too, was a labor of love for his heart 
had been touched by the life of this woman who for 
thirty-eight years had lain on her bed of pain, with scarcely 
any nourishment but that of Holy Communion, scarcely 
any sleep. She was a victim for others, a victim of expi- 
ation. The idea of expiation had appealed to Huysmans 
even in the days when he was writing En Route. This 
book on Sainte Lydwine is a compelling one. It is 
Huysmans' epic on suffering. His Way of the Cross 
henceforth was to be that of patient suffering. How beau- 
tifully he writes of it. "The truth is that Jesus com- 
mences by making one suffer and that He explains after- 
wards. The important thing then is to submit in the 
beginning and to stop complaining instantly. He is the 
greatest Mendicant that the heavens and the earth have 
ever had, the terrible Mendicant of Love. The wounds of 
His hands are the purses always empty, and He holds 
them out for each one to fill them with the little money 
of his sufferings and griefs. There is then only one thing 
to do — to give to Him. Consolation, peace of soul, the 
means to use and transmute at length his torments into 
joys can be obtained only at this price. The receipt for 
this Divine alchemy of sorrow is abnegation and sacrifice. 
After the period of necessary incubation the great work 
is accomplished ; out of the brazier of the soul comes the 
gold, that is to say, Love which consumes the sorrows and 
tears ; the true philosopher's stone is there." 

Huysmans afterwards called his sojourn at Liguge the 
most beautiful time of his life. Homesick though he was 
at times, it is very likely that he would have remained 
there were it not for the exile of the Congregation. The 
law of Associations had taken away the parish church 
from the monks and had placed a secular priest in charge. 



188 GEEAT PENITENTS 

At the end of September of that year the monks went to 
live in Belgium. Huysmans who was deeply afflicted by 
the dispersion had no longer any reason to remain there 
after them, and immediately he came back to Paris, happy 
no doubt to be home again. 

But he did not relax his pious practices. He was a 
familiar figure in the churches, assisting at the offices, his 
favorite place being the foot of Our Lady's altar, for he 
had a wonderful, childlike devotion to the Mother of 
God. He still felt an attraction to the monasteries and 
went to make his dwelling with the Benedictines of the 
Blessed Sacrament. He remained there, however, only 
a year and then took apartments. Huysmans was not 
too easy to get on with ; he was too individual to be happy 
in community life. He could live anywhere so long as he 
was lost in literary work, but once the book was finished 
he began to be restless again. The story of his sojourn 
at Liguge is told in UOblat which appeared at this time. 
It was the end of the trilogy which he had set out to write, 
and was received with as much acclaim as En Route and 
La Cathedrale. From a literary standpoint Huysmans 
had lost nothing by his conversion. His books sold, even 
though financial success had little appeal to him. But 
one must live, and his resources had never been any too 
great. Those resources had been helped a great deal when 
in 1900 he w T as made president of the Academie Goncourt 
of which he had been one of the founders. It gave him the 
necessary leisure for his subsequent books. In 1903 in 
company with his friend Abbe Mugnier he visited differ- 
ent cities, and he described the journey in Trois Primitifs 
which appeared in 1905. In the following year, 1906, 
he published Les Foules de Lourdes, a tribute to her to 
whom he had such great devotion, an answer as it was to 
the iniquitous book on the same subject by his former mas- 
ter, Zola. 

Huysmans was coming near the end of his literary 



J. K. HUYSMANS 189 

work. But his life is not entirely seen in his books. 
He would have been a great man, worthy of study as a 
Christian, even if he had never published a line. He was 
a great penitent, an atoner by suffering. Shortly after the 
publication of Les Foules de Lourdes began the trouble 
with his throat which was at last to cause his death. The 
affliction was cancer of the palate. He began to decline, 
reduced to nothing but skin and bone by months of torture. 
His whole body, indeed, was a prey to suffering. His 
teeth gave him constant pain, he suffered from neuralgia, 
from pains in the chest, and from dyspepsia. Added to 
that was an affection of the eyes, so great that the light 
became unbearable to him and it was finally necessary to 
sew his eyelids shut and compel him to pass months in 
darkness. Through it all he never complained; religion 
gave him courage. At length, by what he believed to be a 
miracle, his sight was restored. But the other ills from 
which he suffered continued. He did not repine — he who 
once had been such a victim of ennui. His only comment 
was, "The good God sends me this sickness for the good 
of my soul." It was not merely resignation ; it was joyful 
conformity, a delight in being asked to suffer. He had 
hoped to be cured by Easter, but not with any great long- 
ing, and he was not disappointed when Easter passed and 
left him still in pain. 

"I ask neither to be cured nor to die/' he said; a God is 
the Master. Suffering has its work to do in my soul. 
When that is finished death will have only to come." 

There was little else to write about — there were no more 
subjects — but there was always his soul to sanctify. It was 
Huysmans humbled. He loved the humble. He made 
money, but he hated it; he would touch only what was 
necessary for his few wants. The soul of Huysmans was, 
when all is said, a humble one. Not that he disdained 
praise; he knew his own talents, knew all that was said 
about him, and wanted to know, even when the criticisms 



190 GEEAT PENITENTS 

were far from being palatable. He had no ill will for 
anybody. He was simple of soul, childlike especially in his 
faith. He had tried the wisdom of the world and had 
discovered its real folly. Learning as an aid to religion he 
did not value much. It was vain, said he, to seek to 
make converts by philosophical discussion. "It is the 
humbling of our intelligence before God which is neces- 
sary for us." 

He humbled himself. Like Baudelaire he chose the foot 
of the Cross. That was the only thing in life worth while. 
He had known sin; he knew how to sympathize with 
others who were struggling against it. There is nothing 
more truly sympathetic than his defence of the relapsing 
Paul Verlaine in the preface he wrote for the collection 
of the poet's religious verses. He was hard on nobody 
but himself. As to himself he felt that he deserved all 
the suffering that could be heaped upon his head. His 
was the motto of St. Teresa — "to suffer or to die." "It 
was necessary that I should suffer like this," he said to a 
friend a few days before his death, "in order that those 
who read my works might know- that I had not only made 
literature ; it was necessary that I should suffer my work." 
His friends admired his strength of soul. "He lives," 
said they, "his most beautiful pages on suffering." Suf- 
fering was his penance for sin. It was why the peniten- 
tial orders appealed to him; he calls them somewhere the 
lightning-conductors of the world. "Hospitals," said he, 
"are necessary things in life." And again, "One must re- 
joice in having the chance to expiate one's sins so." 

The conversion of Huysmans had made a special appeal 
to that other great convert, Erangois Coppee. He de- 
votes several pages in La Bonne Souff ranee to him apropos 
of La Cathedrale, which he calls a book "infinitely inter- 
esting" and "profoundly sincere." "If as the proverb 
says," he writes, "a proverb which finds here its just 
application, all roads lead to Rome, Huysmans has cer- 



J. K. HUYSMANS 191 

tainly taken the longest. Some years ago an unhealthy 
attraction brought him to study the mysterious abomina- 
tions of Satanism; and to read one after the other, La 
Bos and En Route, one could believe — if one did not 
know that the first of these two stories is quite imaginary 
— why Durtal, that is to say, Huysinans, ran to take refuge 
at La Trappe on coming forth from a black Mass. That 
which is true is that this scornful and incorrigible man, 
so hard to satisfy in all things, in matters of style as in 
cooking, came one day to be disgusted with himself. This 
sentiment which he has often expressed with the most 
energetic frankness had to take finally in a scrupulous 
conscience the form of repentance. Whoever repents finds 
the need of being pardoned ; and, there is only one tribunal 
where indulgence is infinite and absolution perfect, the 
confessional. Durtal then rushed upon penance; you will 
find in En Route, on this crisis of soul, pages of a singu- 
lar and penetrating emotion — and he was henceforth a 
Christian." 

"Where Huysmans moves me," continues Coppee, "is 
when he is human; it is when newly converted, having 
lived to a ripe age almost entirely according to the senses, 
and having employed his thought scarcely for anything 
but the painful but amusing gymnastics of letters, he suf- 
fers in having so much difficulty to create in himself an in- 
terior life ; it is when he deplores, with accents of poignant 
sincerity, the little ardor of his piety and the dryness of 
his heart in prayer. I recall then the frightful words, 
'God vomits the tepid.' For I know like sufferings, the 
just punishment of those who are not frightened till late 
at the emptiness of their soul, and seek then with anguish 
to collect with care some ruins of faith and hope. Alas ! 
from the first hour we have been separated from the 
Cross ; during the heat of the day we have lived far from it, 
and it is only towards evening that its shadow lengthens 
and touches us. The moment, no doubt, is propitious, for 



192 GREAT PENITENTS 

all else is going to fail us. We return then towards the 
protecting Cross, Ave embrace it with a gesture of distress, 
and Ave try to pray. But not with impunity have we 
passed long years in indifference to eternal things, and it 
seems to us that the sweet prayers of our infancy wither 
in passing our impure lips. Courage, however. . . . 
Let us pray then without doubting His inexhaustible mercy. 
Let our prayers be as dry as they may, they have never- 
theless their virtue. Are not we already rid of much 
of our baseness and the temptations which obsessed us? 
Do Ave not feel less unjust, more resigned, more humble, 
and especially more charitable?" Yes, Huysmans might 
have ansAvered. Penance had done its work in his soul. 
Religion Avas easy to him noAv. "EA^erything," said he, 
"becomes easy when one has once said Fiat from his heart. 
It is no merit to me to believe in the supernatural. Ever 
since the day of my conversion I have touched it, felt it." 

The end was nearing. The sufferings increased, but so 
great a value did he set on their purifying influence that 
he would not let himself be robbed of any of them. They 
wanted to give him morphine to lessen the pain, but he 
refused it. He kneAV that the day of death Avas not far 
off. He made his will, burned his worthless papers, for- 
bade the publishing of his letters and unedited manu- 
scripts, so great a horror did he have of "confidences" 
and "soirvenirs," and made arrangements for the publica- 
tion of Trois tJglises, his last work, one that was deeply 
religious. There was no sentiment about the end; it 
Avas all religiously businesslike. One April day, a few 
weeks before his death, he was standing on a ladder in his 
library when his friend de Caldain entered. "What are 
you doing ?" he was asked. "I am looking for the Pontifi- 
cal," answered Huysmans ; "I'm waiting for the priest to 
give me Extreme Unction." 

At last the suffering body was worn out. Huysmans 
died May 12, 1907. He had asked to be buried in the robe 



J. K. HUYSMANS 193 

of a Benedictine monk, and his friend the master of novices 
at Liguge, Father Dom Besse, who afterwards pronounced 
at Brussels a beautiful eulogy of the Oblate, sent him the 
habit, and thus he lay in death in the tunic and scapular, 
the hood on his head, the crucifix and relics on his breast. 
His hands were joined as, in prayer, those hands which 
had written so much for which he had to do penance, but 
hands, too, that had written great apologies for faith and 
repentance. 

Crowds came to see the great writer dead. Men of 
letters, people of the world, priests, religious, all entered 
the room which Dom Besse describes as the dwelling of "a 
man of the Middle Ages wandered into our times." 

So passed one of the great figures of his day, one whom 
Havelock Ellis in his Affirmations calls "the greatest mas- 
ter of style and, within his own limits, the subtlest thinker 
and the acutest psychologist who in France today uses the 
medium of the novel." It is not, however, of Huysmans 
as a great writer that we love to think, but of Huysmans 
the sinner who had cleansed his soul by the tears of suffer- 
ing and penance. 



PAUL VERLAINE 

THERE is a story somewhere of a man who after 
leading an honorable, even heroic, life for many 
years died. Admiring citizens erected a monu- 
ment to his glory, and pointed with pride to one who had 
brought such renown to his native place. But in reality 
the man had not died ; he had simply disappeared by that 
strange loss of memory which so many novelists have used 
as the center of their plots. One day he came back to 
his old town. The sight of the monument — a monument 
to him! — recalled the past. But alas, what was he now? 
No longer the upright citizen who did good to his fellows ; 
but a poor derelict, a prey to every vice, a criminal with 
a price on his head. Yet there was the monument erected 
to him ; to him but not to him ; to his dead self, his nobler 
self, not to the miserable thing- he now was. He could 
not, would not claim his due glory. Let his friends think 
kindly of him for what he once was. Never must they 
know that their hero had turned criminal. He let the 
underworld swallow him and left his dead youth in pos- 
session of its glory. 

The mystery of the dual personality has always inter- 
ested psychologists. But it is no great mystery after all. 
There is a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde in every man. It 
is all very clear by the doctrine of original sin ; otherwise 
it becomes inexplicable. How plainly St. Paul ex- 
pressed it in his Epistle to the Romans (VII, 22, 23) : 
"For I am delighted with the law of God, according to 
the inward man. But I see another law in my members 
fighting against the law of my mind, and captivating me 

194 



PAUL VEKLAINE 195 

in the law of sin, that is in my members." It is the soul 
struggling against the body, and the body struggling 
against the soul, 

There is in every man the making of a saint or the mak- 
ing of a devil. Men on the threshold of Heaven have 
about-faced and walked into Hell; the cedars of Lebanon 
have crashed from the heights into the ravines. Men, too, 
just as the judgment of eternal damnation seemed ready 
to be pronounced, have taken fright at their own wicked- 
ness and have risen over their dead selves till they found 
a place somewhere among the canonized saints. 

Somehow, when one reads the story of Paul Yerlaine he 
cannot get the thought of the mysterious dual personality 
out of his head. Verlaine reached the heights of mystic 
song; he fell to the depths of the obscene guffaw. One 
day with the glorious seraphim ; the next with the harpies 
of Hell. Which is the true Verlaine? Psychologists 
have tried to harmonize the two distinct beings he seemed 
to be. They cannot be harmonized, for sin and virtue 
cannot be harmonized. It is clear only in this: with the 
grace of God one can do all things ; but, too, it is possible 
to lose that grace. Verlaine had his chance; he lost it. 
He had his call to sanctity. How nobly he answered it 
in the generosity, expressed as St. Francis himself might 
express it, in the glorious religious poems by which, as 
Huysmans, no mean critic and no mean mystic, says : "The 
Church has had in him the greatest poet of whom she 
can be proud since the Middle Ages." His was a call to 
sanctity, and then the relapse into all that was low, cheap, 
vile. 

How then presume to place Verlaine among the "great 
penitents", among those who from the moment of con- 
version fought their way back into the light ? The degra- 
dation of his later life up to the very moment of his death 
would Seem to deny him a place among good penitents 
just as for years he was denied a place among good men, 



196 GKEAT PENITENTS 

his name a byword, synonymous with sins which even bad 
men hesitate to name. But Verlaine was at one time, 
however short or long a time his change of heart lasted, 
a great penitent. He is moreover the classic poet of peni- 
tence, far more so even than his friend Coppee. When 
all his other work is forgotten, his penitent cries will still 
be heard. Men will no longer remember that he so often 
abused his gift of song; his corrupt verses will be of in- 
terest only to antiquarians, but his religious poetry will 
be a part of the eternal classics. As time goes on these 
penitential poems, so personal to him when he wrote them, 
will lose a great deal of that personal touch and will be 
used to voice the sentiments of any singer, just as the 
psalms which David wrote to express his own personal 
afflictions have become the impersonal, yet for that reason 
all the more personal, voice of mankind. 

Verlaine was the great penitent — ruined. He found his 
soul once in prison. Did he lose it again? God knows. 
'Not for us to judge. Max Nordau who had made a study 
of Verlaine dismissed him as a degenerate. Huysmans 
commenting upon Nordau's statement, that Verlaine 
"struggled sadly against his bad instincts," says: "Yes, 
he did struggle : he was for the most of the time conquered ; 
and after? Who is the Catholic who would believe he 
has the right to cast the first stone?" Who, indeed, will 
set a limit to the mercy of God, and for one especially who 
once served Him loyally, wholeheartedly, and in tears ? 

Paul Marie Verlaine was born March 30, 1844 at Metz, 
in Lorraine when that province was still French territory 
before it came under the heel of the German conqueror. 
His parents, associated with the military profession, could 
not call any abode their permanent home. This may ex- 
plain somewhat the tendency of their child to the life of 
vagabondage. 

Nicholas Auguste Verlaine, the poet's father, was born 
at Bertrix, then on French territory but ceded to Luxem- 



PAUL VERLAINE 197 

bourg by the treaty of 1815. Nicholas, the son of a no- 
tary, could claim an old and good ancestry. At the age 
of sixteen he was in the army of Napoleon during the last 
campaign of 1814-1815. He went through all the grades 
of promotion, and at the time he resigned, a few years 
after the birth of Paul, dissatisfied, thinking he had been 
treated unjustly, he was captain in the second regiment of 
engineers, a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, and also 
of St. Ferdinand of Spain. His colonel, Niel, afterwards 
Marshal, had great admiration for Captain Verlaine and 
urged him to withdraw his resignation, but the captain was 
headstrong and followed his bent. Like father like son; 
Paul Verlaine, especially when drinking, was the essence 
of stubbornness. The captain was forty-six years of age 
when his only child was born, and happened to be stationed 
at Metz. There the family lived, with short intervals of 
change of garrison to other places, during the first six or 
seven years of the boy's life. 

Paul Verlaine always loved his birthplace. He was al- 
ways filled with patriotic and even militaristic sentiments 
for Metz and France, and after the conquest of Lorraine 
always spoke of it with the deepest emotion — "O town 
where laughed my infancy." He can well be called a 
great patriotic poet, quite as much as Coppee. No won- 
der. He had a fine example in his father, whom he al- 
ways loved and admired. What a great hero he must have 
been to the little lad, this especially tall soldier, of superb 
carriage, with a face so martial yet so gentle. Useless 
now to talk of what might have been had Captain Verlaine 
remained in the army. But, as we have said, he resigned, 
and at once moved his family to Paris, where he took 
apartments in the Quartier des Batignolles, sacred now 
as the place where the poet lies buried with his father and 
mother. Paul, who was then seven, was placed in a small 
institution, where as a day scholar he learned to read and 
write and figure. There he soon fell ill of a fever, and 



198 GEEAT PENITENTS 

was tenderly nursed back to health by his devoted mother. 
That mother of Verlaine ! She began early her ministra- 
tions of love to the wayward son and never ceased them 
till her death. Paul Verlaine' s mother will live as long 
as Paul Verlaine himself. 

Madame Verlaine was Elisa Julie Josephe Stephanie 
Dehee, and was born at Fampoux in Pas-de-Calais, in 
French Flanders. She belonged to an old family of land- 
owners, cultivators, sugarmakers, and was an heiress of 
considerable importance, having at the time of her mar- 
riage a fortune of some four hundred thousand francs, a 
great deal of which was afterwards lost through the bad 
speculations of her husband. She was thirty-six at the 
time of Paul's birth. She was an excellent woman, tall, 
straight, dignified, always dressed in black, cold and calm 
— God knows she had need to be calm with such a son — a 
woman of very few words, saving, somewhat ceremonious 
in manner. And whereas her husband was indifferent in 
matters of religion, though always respectful to the Church, 
she was particularly pious. There is room here for psy- 
chological digression in the immediate antecedents of Paul 
Verlaine and the pre-natal effects on him of the wandering 
military life, the religious indifference of the father, the 
deep piety of the mother. But such digressions are be- 
yond our point. Verlaine's fate was in himself. He had 
what would seem to be a guarded youth in his home and 
in his schools, yet in spite of this protection sin came into 
his life very early. The Captain adored his boy, never- 
theless he sought to treat him with a certain discipline, and 
when he was sent to the Institution Landry, a large board- 
ing-school, he used to come daily to inquire about the lad's 
health, bring him dainties and often take him out to din- 
ner. 

Paul remained at the Institution several years. He 
said afterwards that he had been a poor student, but in 
this, as in many other things, he exaggerated. It was 



u 



PAUL VEELAIUE 199 

there lie made his First Communion, preceded by a general 
"scrupulous" confession. He writes in his "Confes- 
sions"; "And my First Communion was 'good.' I felt 
then for the first time that thing almost physical which 
all who partake of the Eucharist feel of the Presence, 
absolutely real, in a sincere approach to the Sacrament. 
One is invested. God is there in our flesh and in our 
Wood. The sceptics say that it is faith alone which pro- 
duces that in the imagination. And the indifference of 
the impious, the coldness of the unbelieving, when by 
derision they absorb the Sacred Species, is the effect even 
of their sin, the temporal punishment of sacrilege." He 
had sinned much when in 1895 these words were written. 
As a boy he was assiduous enough in his religious exer- 
cises, but it was not long before he became acquainted 
with vice. Precocious in talent, he was also precocious 
in vice. His boyhood was filled with impurity; indeed, 
he was little more than fifteen when he began to frequent 
the company of bad women. Taken all in all there were 
very few months in his life when his tendency was not 
to animal passions. Evil companionship had helped to that 
end, especially the evil companionship of bad books. Ver- 
laine could scarcely remember the time when he had been 
pure. 

While still boarding at the Institution Landry he en- 
tered the courses of the Lycee Bonaparte where he studied 
from 1853 to 1862. Though of limited faculties, espe- 
cially as to sciences, he had a certain success in his studies, 
chiefly in rhetoric and Latin, won several prizes, and 
succeeded in getting his Bachelor degree, which was suf- 
ficiently hard to win. When he left the Lycee he was a 
youth of eighteen, with absolutely no morals, and less 
faith. Impure books, rationalistic books, read clandes- 
tinely, had done their work. 

As soon as his school days were finished he went with 
his parents to visit his mother's relatives in Artois. Sub- 



200 GEEAT PENITENTS 

sequently he made many visits there, for he loved that 
country, and, although never what may be called a poet 
of nature, he loved nature. During that vacation he 
walked in the woods, fished and hunted. Hunting was 
his favorite sport. He made himself one of the country 
people, dressed like them, lived like them, and soon drank 
like them. It was here he got his passion for strong drink, 
which was eventually to be the cause of all his misfortunes. 
Verlaine was at heart always a northerner; he hated the 
sun. This happy-go-lucky life was just what appealed 
to him. It was after all the fundamental weakness of his 
character — instability. He was essentially a dreamer. 
His parents were already planning his future — they 
wanted him to take up law — but he was the least concerned 
of all. 

There was no need to worry about finances, and the 
hunting was good. Verlaine then as always was a great 
reader. He read with avidity all that came under his 
hand, history, romance, poetry. We find him even in 
those days expressing delight over a life of St. Teresa 
he was reading. Why, it is hard to say, for as we have 
said, even in those young days his faith had gone with 
his morals. He occasionally visited the churches, as one 
of his friends assures us, but it was merely to satisfy his 
artistic curiosity. He would follow a sermon of Pere 
Monsabre or some other great preacher, but merely for 
the sake of the oratory. It brought no spiritual message 
to his soul, so young yet so corrupt. It was so manly to 
be an unbeliever at eighteen! In one of his letters to a 
school chum he writes that he has been reading; the "Rama- 
yana," by Indra! He exclaims, "How fine it is! and 
how it disgusts you with the Bible, the Gospel and the 
Fathers of the Church." Poor silly youth, how wise it is ! 

On the return to Paris Verlaine undertook to study 
law, but it was evident at once that he had no aptitude 
for it. Most of his time was then spent in the drinking 



PAUL VERLAINE 201 

places of the Latin Quarter. The military father sensed 
the impending ruin. He was anxious to place the youth 
away from the danger of idleness, and finally got him a 
position with an insurance company. To qualify himself 
for the work Paul went to a commercial school. Once in 
this position everything looked bright for a while. He 
was forced to be sober, and as he was allowed little spend- 
ing money he led a rather decent life. He even saved 
some money from his wages, and gave some to his parents. 
They must have breathed a sigh of relief when they saw 
him so industrious, spending his leisure with books and 
paintings and not, as formerly, in the cabarets. It was 
but a temporary relief, however, for he gradually con- 
tracted the drinking habit again, a habit that he further 
developed during the days of the Siege, and which finally 
bound him bodv and soul. 

From the insurance office he passed in 1864, when he 
was twenty, to a position in one of the city departments. 
But his heart was not in that work either. As soon as 
his day ? s work was over, he would hurry to the Cafe du 
Gaz, then the rendezvous of literary and artistic folk, 
where he would delight in taking part in the discussions 
on poetry and other matters, a discussion that was punc- 
tuated by much drinking. As an employee he had no 
ambition. He never had ambition. He was the type of 
the care-free poet; for Verlaine even then was a budding 
poet. Par back as the time when he was but fifteen or 
sixteen he had begun to write verses, without, however, 
any thought of publication. 

Captain Verlaine died December 30, 1865. Paul 
grieved over his death. It was a loss in more ways than 
one, for the hand of the father had had some restraining 
influence on the boy so inclined to waywardness and so 
easily led. 

A few months later Paul Verlaine made his debut in 
the literary world with the publication of his first book, 



202 GKEAT PENITENTS 

Poemes Saturniens. The famous literary group, so many 
of whom attained fame, known as La Parnasse, began 
with Louis Xavier de Ricard, who had gathered at his 
mother's house the young men just beginning to write. 
There were seen Catulle Mendes, Coppee, Anatole France, 
Sully Prudhomme, de Heredia, the de Goncourt brothers, 
and others. La Parnasse Contemporaine> devoted for 
several months, week after week, to the publication of 
the verses of new poets, caused a stir in the literary world, 
and also brought upon the writers, unjustly, a great deal 
of ridicule. Alphonse Lemerre, who up to that time had 
specialized in pious books, agreed to publish the works 
of the budding poets at their own expense. Thus the 
Poemes Saturniens appeared, on the same day, by the 
way, as La Reliquaire of Coppee and a book of de Ricard. 
Needless to say, the new book of a contemporary, com- 
paratively unknown poet created no sensation. His friends 
of course flattered him upon it, and even estimable critics, 
like Saint Beuve, recognized in the youth of twenty-two 
a real poet, but the reading public ignored the book, and 
the press, as was to be expected, was quite silent about it. 
It did not meet the success of Coppee's first book. Ver- 
laine's verses were impersonal. He was then but a care- 
free boy who scarcely knew that he had a soul; anyway 
he did not put that soul into his poems until the day when 
the hand of God afflicted him. The same thing may be 
said of his next book — Fetes Galantes — which appeared in 
1869. It was barely noticed outside the salon of the 
strange Nina de Callias where the Parnassian group used 
to congregate. 

The real tragedy of Verlaine's life began with his mar- 
riage. One day he called upon his friend Charles de Sivry. 
By chance de Sivry's half sister, Mathilde de Maute, 
entered the room. She had seen Verlaine in an amateur 
play in which he had had great success as a comedian. 
Introduced to the young poet of a certain literary, though 



PAUL VEELAINE 203 

limited fame, she told him how much she appreciated his 
verses. It was a case of love at first sight. The young 
girl — she was only sixteen — was pleased to have a poet 
make much of her, and Verlaine, so intensely ugly as to his 
personal appearance that he himself knew it and delighted 
in drawing caricatures of himself, a man, too, who was 
timid in the presence of women, in spite of his sinful 
youth, felt flattered that he whose ugliness ordinarily re- 
pelled women seemed to hold the attention of this charm- 
ing girl. She was a girl of good common sense, with no 
romantic notions, and was worshipped in her own family. 
Verlaine, beside himself with this first love, went north 
to think the matter over, and almost immediately wrote 
to de Sivry asking for the hand of his sister. It was an 
extraordinary way to propose, but de Sivry pleaded his 
friend's cause. There was little need of pleading, how- 
ever. Nobody was opposed to the marriage. Verlaine 
was considered quite a good catch. He had a good posi- 
tion in City Hall, his mother was known to have a good 
amount of money which eventually would come to him, 
and — perhaps the deciding factor with Mathilde's parents 
— he was willing to take the girl without a dowry. Ver- 
laine's mother, too, was pleased, thinking that marriage 
would make him settle down and make a man of him. She 
was always the doting mother. She adored her boy, she 
spoiled him with her ready indulgence, and she cried all 
too late. No matter what his transgressions she quickly 
pardoned him. When he came home drunk, she put him 
to bed, took care of him, and then went to her room to 
weep over his misfortunes. The next day she would kill 
him with kindness, find excuses for him, and blame every- 
body else for his faults. She was very proud of his tal- 
ents, even though she was not literary, and perhaps never 
read one of his books. 

For a time it seemed that she was right about the mar- 
riage. Love, and it was a great love, sobered the man. 



204 GEEAT PENITENTS 

He stayed away from the saloons and wrote poetry. It 
was at this period when he was longing for his wedding 
day that he wrote La Bonne Chanson, poems in praise of 
the girl who was to be his wife, the volume appearing in 
1870 during the war. The marriage at last took place 
in the Church of Notre Dame de Clignancourt in the time 
of the Commune. 

It is useless to discuss whether or not Verlaine ever 
should have married. He was a bundle of nerves, ex- 
citable to fury when he drank. Whether this lot would 
have been different with another wife, it is also useless to 
discuss. It is folly to talk of what might have been. The 
times were, indeed, strenuous. Shortly after the honey- 
moon came the Siege, then the Commune. Verlaine might 
have escaped the service had he wished, but, the true son 
of his soldier father, he was a good patriot and, filled with 
zeal, joined the national guard. He did not last long as a 
military man. He had the soul of a hero, but the body of 
a coward. An attack of bronchitis not only weakened 
him, but it impelled him to drink in spite of his resolution 
at the time of his marriage never again to touch the stuff. 
The army anyway had its special temptations to drink. 
Dispensed from service through illness, he never took up 
his gun again, though in reality while being classed among 
the Communards he never took an active part. He was 
back at work in the City Hall where his task was to clip 
from the papers all that was favorable or unfavorable to 
the Commune. And all the while he was writing poetry 
to the sound of the cannon. 

The honeymoon, meanwhile, had not lasted long. 
Scarcely six months had passed when one day he came 
home drunk. The young wife was so surprised and dis- 
gusted that she left him and returned to her parents. She 
at last acceded to his importunities, trusting in his good 
resolves, and came back to him. But it was only a tem- 
porary reconciliation. The rift in the lute was widened 



PAUL VERLAINE 205 

by his idleness. He refused to go back to the bureau af- 
ter the defeat of the Commune, being afraid that his for- 
mer activity in the cause, small though that activity was, 
would militate against him. In reality he was glad to be 
rid of the prosaic job. It was a misfortune, but a greater 
one was his going to live with his wife's people. Idle 
now, he had more time to drink, and he drank heavily. 
He went north with his wife and spent the summer there, 
returning to Paris in September. He afterwards regret- 
ted that he had not kept his position ; years afterwards he 
tried in vain to get it back. But that was long afterwards. 
At first the idleness did not worry him a bit, though it 
was the beginning of his many misfortunes. When sober 
Paul Verlaine was of fine disposition, agreeable. When 
drunk he was disagreeable, violent, unbearable. Even 
the birth of his son, George, did not wake him up. He 
was living in a fool's paradise. His faults were great 
enough, but they were greater when seen through the mag- 
nifying eyes of his people-in-law. Had his wife been of 
strong character — like her parents she had little religion — 
she might have reclaimed him, for he loved her devotedly. 
But one must not be too hard on her. She suffered much 
at the hands of her poet husband. 

The growing ill-will came to a climax through the youth 
who was Verlaine's evil genius, Arthur Rimbaud, a boy 
of sixteen, precocious, intelligent, anarchistic, even athe- 
istic, who could drink strong drink like water. He had 
run away to Paris from his home in the Ardennes — Ver- 
laine' s own country. A poet himself, he had read Ver- 
laine's verses and had liked them. He affected to despise 
the classics. He sent one of his poems to Verlaine who, 
flattered by the tribute, wrote at once to the youth offering 
him the hospitality of the house where he himself was only 
a guest, and quite an unwelcome one at that. The Maute 
family did not share Verlaine's enthusiasm for the pre- 
cocious poet and they soon dismissed him, much to Ver- 



206 GEE AT PENITENTS 

laine's chagrin. Rimbaud lodged here, there and every- 
where. Tie imposed himself wherever he could. But 
Paul was his great friend, taking him about with him, 
proud to show him off to all the literary circles. Rimbaud 
was a vain youth. He had a real talent, an original one, 
and a monument has been erected to him in his native 
town of Charleville. But he was unbearable. Addicted 
to drink and drugs he was forever quarreling, insulting 
even his hosts, so that after a while no one w T anted him. 
Verlaine's feelings were hurt by this rejection of his pro- 
tege and he broke with his old friends out of loyalty for 
this "enfant Shakespeare/' as Victor Hugo — cynically no 
doubt — called Rimbaud. The strange association was the 
cause of daily quarrels in the Verlaine home. The vilest 
insinuations even were made as to the nature of the friend- 
ship, but Verlaine clung to Rimbaud in preference to his 
wife. Thinking himself a martyr, an abused husband, he 
decided to leave home. His wife was quite indifferent. 
She had ceased to care for him, ceased to respect him. His 
mother, as usual hoping for the best, gave him the means 
to support himself on his uncertain journey. It was a 
poor service to him. 

The queer pair set out that July day of 1872 for Arras. 
From Belgium they went to London. Scarcely had they 
left Paris when Verlaine's wife entered her appeal for a 
separation from him. It was an evil period in the life 
of the poet, no matter how charitably we may be inclined 
to him. It was a period of drink and lust. That was 
evident from the book of poems he sent back to Paris to 
be printed, and which on its publication was confiscated 
by the police. 

Rimbaud's friendship did not last long. He found Lon- 
don useful inasmuch as he was able to learn English there, 
but he soon returned to Belgium. Verlaine was incon- 
solable. He became ill, and telegraphed for his wife and 
mother to come to him. The poor doting mother came, of 



PAUL VERLAINE 207 

course. The wife ignored the request. She was done 
with Paul Verlaine. When his mother returned to Paris 
he refused to go with her, although she pleaded with him. 
Instead he went to Belgium in the spring of 1873, where 
he remained a while with his relations. All the while 
he hoped, vainly, that his wife would become reconciled to 
him. 

Meanwhile he had been writing poetry. He had com- 
pleted Les Romances Sans Paroles, but was unable, owing 
to unsettled conditions in politics, to get a publisher. He 
heard then that his wife had been granted a decree of 
separation, and at once he wrote for Rimbaud to come 
back. The return meant another drunken debauch, as 
they wandered first in the Ardennes and then back to 
London again, where they tried to gain a living by giving 
lessons in French. But the chief means of support was 
the money that came from the poor, foolish mother. 

The strange friendship lasted for two years and a half. 
Then one June day, 1873, the poets quarreled, Verlaine 
going off in a huff to Anvers without telling Rimbaud, and 
without leaving him any money, for it was considered 
Verlaine's privilege to pay all the bills. Verlaine was 
morbid ; he even thought of suicide. He wanted his wife ; 
he loved her, and he cursed her. He met his mother at 
Brussels, and she brought the final word that his wife 
would have nothing more to do with him. He sought 
solace in drink, and more drink, and again he sent for 
Rimbaud. Rimbaud came, not for the sake of his friend, 
but to seek to bleed him and get enough money to take 
him to Paris. He even tried to extort money from 
Madame Verlaine. A quarrel ensued between him and 
Paul. Rimbaud started to leave, and Verlaine, drawing 
the revolver, fired at him. The shot went wild. The 
mother, shocked at the vulgar quarrel that had almost 
ended in murder, gave Rimbaud the money he wanted 
and sent him on his way. Paul insisted on accompanying 



208 GREAT PENITENTS 

him to the train and walked out with him, when Rimbaud, 
fearing that he was going to shoot again, called the police 
and had his friend arrested. He then took the train for 
home, breathing a sigh of relief that he had escaped with 
his life. 

Verlaine was immediately brought to the prison of 
Petits Carmes, where he was detained until an investiga- 
tion into his character was made in Paris. The report 
that came back was bad, and he was sentenced to two years 
in prison and a fine of two hundred francs, August 8, 
1873. The poor mother did her best to get him released. 
Other friends aided her, but all to no purpose. Verlaine 
was doomed to remain in prison. He tried to make the 
best of it. He bore it well, and was as patient as could 
be expected under the circumstances. In the February of 
1874 Les Romances Sans Paroles was published. Copies 
were sent to those designated by him, to papers for review, 
but in vain. Nobody wanted the book. Paul Verlaine 
was dead to his world; he was a disgraced, a dishonored 
man, a convict. But at that very moment of his rejection 
by his friends he was about to receive a wonderful grace. 
God was preparing to do a great work in his soul. And 
what a soul it was! the idle vagabond, the drunkard, the 
brawler, the impure and foul-mouthed man, the free- 
thinker without a shred of faith. Men do not fall much 
lower than Verlaine had fallen up to the time of his im- 
prisonment. 

In his book, Mes Prisons, published in 1893, he tells 
the story of his sudden, his wonderful conversion back to 
God and to decent living. No one can question the sin- 
cerity of it even though the poor weakling relapsed into 
sin after a long hard struggle to be true to his nobler self. 
Read in the light of his after degradation the conversion 
of Verlaine moves one to tears. 

In that prison of Mons, he did not curse his lot. He 
confesses that he knew that he really deserved the scaffold. 



PAUL VERLAIIE 209 

He tried to make the best of it and amused himself by 
reading and by playing simple games which he invented. 
He worked, read poetry, projected plays, read Shakespeare 
especially in order to perfect his English, and made plans 
for the translation of contemporary English books. We 
find him reading among other books Cardinal Wiseman's 
Fabiola. 

But at last the great day dawned. He writes: 
" Jesus, how did you come to take me? Ah, one morn- 
ing the good director himself entered my cell. 'My good 
friend/ he said to me, 'I bring you bad news. Courage ! 
Read.' It was a sheet of crested paper, the copy of the 
separation (from his wife), so merited, but so hard to 
bear. I fell in tears on my poor back on my poor bed." 
An hour or two later he asked that the chaplain be sent to 
him. When he came Verlaine asked him for a catechism, 
and the chaplain brought him a copy of Abbe Gaume' s 
Catechism of Perseverance. "I am a literateur," he writes, 
"I enjoy correctness, subtility, all the art of style, as of 
law, order, etc. But in spite of a deplorable art in point 
of writing, and of painful syntax, Abbe Gaume was for 
me — so rotten with pride, with syntax and Parisian fool- 
ishness — an apostle." a The proofs," he continues, 
"mediocre enough, given by Abbe Gaume in favor of the 
existence of God and of the immortality of the soul, 
pleased me but little and convinced me not at all, I ad- 
mit, in spite of the efforts of the chaplain to corroborate 
them with his better and more cordial commentaries. It 
was then he thought of a supreme idea and said to me, 
'Skip the chapters and pass at once to the Sacrament of 
the Eucharist.' I do not know if those pages constitute a 
chef d'oeuvre. I even doubt it. But in the state of soul 
in w^hich I found myself, the profound ennui in which I 
was plunged, the despair at not being free, the shame at 
being in prison, determined one certain June morning, 
after what a bitter sweet night of meditation on the Real 



210 GEE AT PENITENTS 

Presence and the multiplicity without number of hosts 
figured in the holy Gospels by the multiplication of the 
loaves and the fishes — all that, I say, determined in me 
truly an extraordinary resolution. " 

There hung in his cell above a little brass crucifix a 
picture of the Sacred Heart, a lithograph that was far 
from being a work of art. His eyes rested upon that pic- 
ture. 

k T do not know/' he says, "what or Who suddenly 
raised me. I threw myself out of my bed without taking 
time to dress myself, and I prostrated myself in tears and 
sobs at the foot of the crucifix and of the picture evocative 
of the strangest, but to my eyes the most sublime devotion 
of modern times in the Catholic Church. Only the hour 
of rising two hours or less after this veritable small — or 
great ? — moral miracle, made me get up from my knees. 
I went about the care of my cell, according to the rules, 
making my bed, sweeping the room, when the day-guard 
entered, and addressed me in the conventional, 'All goes 
well V I said to him at once, 'Tell the chaplain to come.' " 

The chaplain entered the cell a few moments afterwards, 
and Verlaine told him about his conversion. "I believe," 
he said, "I saw, it seemed to me that I knew ; I was illu- 
minated." 

The chaplain was persuaded of the prisoner's sincerity. 
Priests are never surprised at the workings of the grace 
of God. He calmed the penitent, and upon Verlaine's ex- 
pressing a desire to go to confession at once, the good 
priest prevailed upon him to wait for a while. Verlaine 
meanwhile prayed — "Praying through my tears, through 
my smiles, as a child, as a redeemed criminal, praying on 
my knees, with my hands, 'with all my heart, with all my 
soul, with all my strength' according to the words of my 
revived catechism." 

"How much I reflected on the essence and evolution 
even of the thing which had taken place in me. Why? 



PAUL VE ELAINE 211 

How? How good I was, how simple, how childish, and 
how ignorant. Domine, noverim Te. What candor of a 
childish heart, what gentleness of an old — and young — 
then converted sinner, the proud humbling himself, the 
violent man become a lamb." As a sign of his conversion 
he gave up all profane reading, Shakespeare included. He 
plunged into de Malstre and Auguste Nicolas, eager to 
learn all he could about his renewed faith, the chaplain 
explaining whatever difficulties he had. 

At length the great day of confession arrived. It was 
long, detailed, the first since the day he had renewed his 
Eirst Communion years before. There were shameful 
things to tell, for the soul of Verlaine had been, indeed, a 
leprous one. But when it was ended and the words of 
absolution pronounced on that glad Assumption day, a 
new peace came into his soul, a peace which remained till 
the day of his liberation from prison, and indeed long 
afterwards. 

Verlaine was a true convert, and burned with zeal to 
share his good fortune with others. He desired to con- 
vert his old school chum, Lepelletier, and wrote to him, 
advising him to get a copy of Gaume. "All that I am 
going to tell you now," he wrote, "is that I experience in 
a great, an immense degree, that which one feels when, 
the first difficulties surmounted, he perceives a science, an 
art, a new language, and also that inexpressible feeling of 
having escaped a great danger. I implore you to tell no 
one what I write to you. If anyone asks of you news of 
me, say that you know I am well, that I am better, that 
I am absolutely converted to the Catholic religion, after 
ripe reflection, in full possession of my moral liberty and 
my good sense." 

Lepelletier, his biographer, does not wish to grant that 
the conversion was sincere. He calls it "an impulsive 
act." Verlaine, he says, in his youth despised religion, 
had read materialistic books, and had lost faith in the 



212 GREAT PENITENTS 

supernatural, getting instead, "a rational and intelligent 
atheism !" He seeks to explain the psychology of it in a 
natural way. The habits of the man had changed, he 
had become sober by force, and hence less nervous, less 
excitable ; he was less the boy now, and had become more 
serious; he stopped swearing, blushed for his past, exam- 
ined his conscience and asked himself what he had done 
with his youth ; from that there came a moral depression, 
and he got the idea that he must do penance; then the 
religious idea awoke, and he invoked the Lord for help. 
This mere natural explanation is unjust to Verlaine. 

There is no doubt that the man's heart was converted to 
God. His one thought during those days was to atone 
for his sins. Piety occupied his mind to the exclusion of 
everything else. Worldliness had left even his poetry. 
"I am making canticles to Mary," he writes, "after the 
system and the prayers of the primitive Church." It may 
be noted that henceforth Verlaine's poetry sounded the per- 
sonal note. 

His reading, too, had changed. He wrote that he 
wanted to translate "a remarkable book of Lady Fuller- 
ton — Ellen Middleton." Strange that that book, written 
before Lady Fullerton entered the Catholic Church, 
stressed the need of man to confess his sins. Verlaine had 
already decided that when he was liberated he would make 
his living by translating. One gets an idea of his change 
of heart in a letter he wrote to Lepelletier, September 8, 
1874: 

"It is necessary to have passed through all that I have 
suffered for three years, humiliations, disdain, insults, to 
feel all that is admirably consoling, reasonable, logical, in 
this religion, so terrible and so sweet. Oh, terrible ! Yes ! 
But man is so bad, so truly fallen, and punished by his 
birth alone. And I do not speak of proofs, historic, scien- 
tific and other, which are blinding when one has this im- 
mense goodness to be drawn from this society, abominable, 



PAUL VE ELAINE 213 

rotten, old, foolish, proud, damnable." The prison, 
through the religion which it brought to the soul of the 
sinner, regenerated Paul Verlaine. It was under that 
wonderful influence that he wrote in prison most of the 
great religious poems of Sagesse, which Verhaeren calls, 
"the white crown of his work," though the book was not 
published till 1881, several years after he had been re- 
leased from prison. Sagesse is wonderfully beautiful; 
every line of it could be quoted to show how Verlaine had 
remade his soul through tears of repentance. One ex- 
ample must suffice, one of the most glorious lyrics ever 
written. We give the fine translation made by Ashmore 
Wingate. 

My God, but Thou hast wounded me in love, 
And quivers still the wound that Thou hast made : 
My God, but Thou hast wounded me in love. 

My God, but with Thy dread Thou'st stricken me, 

Thy blast, which thunders yet I feel anear : 

My God, but with Thy dread Thou'st stricken me. 

My God, I have discovered all is vile, 
Xow that in me Thy glory is installed : 
My God, I have discovered all is vile. 

Submerge my soul in flood-w T aves of Thy Wine, 
And from Thy table's Bread upbuild my life : 
Submerge my soul in flood-waves of Thy Wine. 

Behold my blood, which I have never shed ; 
Behold my flesh, unworthy to feel pain : 
Behold my blood which I have never shed. 

Behold my forehead, which can only blush, 

For footstool of Thy feet adorable : 

Behold my forehead, which can only blush. 



214 GEEAT PENITENTS 

Behold my hands, which have no labour done, 
For burning embers and for incense rare: 
Behold my hands which have no labour done. 

Behold my heart, which hath but beat in vain, 

To throb upon the briers of Calvary: 

Behold my heart, which hath but beat in vain. 

Behold my feet, these frivolous voyagers, 
To hasten to the summons of Thy grace : 
Behold my feet, these frivolous voyagers. 

Behold my voice, a sullen, lying sound, 
For the reproaches made by Penitence: 
Behold my voice, a sullen, lying sound. 

Behold mine eyes, lights which with error shine, 
To be extinguished in the tearful prayer: 
Behold mine eyes, lights which with error shine. 

Ah, God of offering and forgiveness, 
What is the depth of my ingratitude ? 
Ah, God of offering and forgiveness. 

Oh! God of terror and of sanctity, 
Behold the black abysm of my sin: 
Oh ! God of terror and of sanctity. 

Thou God of peace, of joy, of goodness, too, 
All these my fears, all this mine ignorance : 
Thou God of peace, of joy, of goodness, too. 

Thou knowest, yea, all this Thou knowest well, 
And how I am most poor of all that live : 
Thou knowest, yea, all this Thou knowest well. 

Yet, Lord, that which I am, to Thee I give. 



PAUL YEELAINE 215 

Verlaine was released from prison January 16, 1875. 
The faithful old mother was waiting for him at the door. 
They were escorted to the French borders by the police, 
and the mother brought him to her relations to rest a 
while before taking up his life again. She alone was 
faithful. Verlaine was dead to society, buried alive, and 
not even his name was mentioned, a fact that must be 
taken into account when there is consideration of his re- 
lapses and his final degradation. 

How sincere his conversion was is evident from the fact 
that he did not drink for five years after his conversion. 
Had he been given a helping hand in those first days of 
fervor, things might have been different towards the end. 
But he was received coldly even by his relatives. There 
was the taint of the jail upon him. But he was still domi- 
nated by his conversion. He was a sincere penitent; he 
sought to arrange his life so as to avoid the temptations of 
the past. He had to look for some way to earn a living, 
for his mother's fortune had dwindled to almost nothing. 
He thought of taking up farming, but wisely put away 
the idea. Literature, his metier, offered no financial pros- 
pects, and he had no bent to journalism. Anyway, he 
did not wish to return to Paris, where his name was a 
byword, and where, moreover, there were so many dan- 
gers for his soul. The vagabond life, the cabarets, all Paris 
was full of temptations. No better proof of his sincere 
repentance is w T anted than his manly, even heroic efforts to 
lead a new life. So he decided to teach Latin, French and 
English in some school where he could live and there find 
forgetfulness of the past in honorable work. He adver- 
tised in the papers and soon got a position in the Grammar 
School of a Mr. Andrews, in Stickney, near Boston, Eng- 
land. There he taught French, Latin and drawing, and 
made his dwelling with the family of Mr. Andrews, a 
charming, learned man. Verlaine led a very happy exis- 
tence there for a year and a half, leading a laborious, regu- 



216 GEEAT PENITENTS 

lar life, working hard at learning English and finding 
solace for his soul in the open fields of the beautiful Eng- 
lish country. He wrote little or no poetry in those days, 
but he read a great many books. He writes from Stick- 
ney, November 19, 1875, that he has been reading theology 
and the mystics — The Summa of St. Thomas, and the 
works of St. Teresa! 

Anxious to see his mother, he left the school and came 
to Arras, and remained there for a time, writing poetry 
and studying English. He finally came to Boston, Eng- 
land, and tried to make a living by giving private lessons 
in French but failing in that he got a position in an insti- 
tution at Bournemouth, directed by a Mr. Remington. 
Here he wrote several of the poems of Sagesse, "masses 
of verse/' as he said. But the homesickness was upon him, 
and he returned to Paris where he remained for a while, 
though unknown. Through his friend Ernest Delehaye, 
then a professor in the Catholic College of Notre Dame at 
Bethel, he got a position teaching literature, history, geog- 
raphy and English. Most of his fellow professors were 
priests "gens cordiaux" as he calls them. He found there 
in this "Thebaid" peace and calm. The priests did not 
know the history of the man till long after he had left 
them. They had found him uncommunicative, but faith- 
ful to duty, regular in his religious exercises. They never 
suspected that in the quiet of his room he was writing 
some of the greatest religious poetry of all time, his recrea- 
tion after correcting the themes of his pupils. He was a 
modest, simple, pious man. Verlaine always kept the 
most pleasant remembrances of the college. And the col- 
lege reciprocated. It was proud of him. In 1897 the 
alumni gave a banquet at Paris in memory and in honor 
of their late professor. 

It is said by some of his biographers that at Bethel the 
old temptation to drink came upon him, and that being 
reprimanded for it he left. Whatever the reason he re- 



PAUL VEELAINE 217 

signed. He wanted to reclaim his position in society, to 
get a place in the world. 

One of his students was Lucien Letinois, a farmer's son, 
a pious youth whom Verlaine loved much. He went with 
the lad to the farm and lived there for a time. He per- 
suaded his mother to come and buy a farm in the vicinity. 
Poor business man that Verlaine was, he had the place 
bought in the name of the elder Letinois. The dreamy 
poet was never meant to be a practical farmer, and the 
undertaking was a miserable failure. He gave it up ; old 
Letinois sold the farm and pocketed the money, and Ver- 
laine with the wanderlust again in his soul set out with the 
boy for London. They remained there but a short time, 
for they had no money, and back to Paris they came to 
his mother, with whom he remained from 1881 to 1883. 
He tried in vain to get back his position in the bureau. 
It was in this period of uncertainty, of mental suffering 
that he brought out his greatest book, the immortal Sagesse, 
1881. It had been a hard struggle to place it. No one 
wanted poetry, especially pious poetry. It was a Catholic 
publisher, Victor Palme, who finally accepted it. 

Needless to say it passed unnoticed. Even the Catho- 
lics did not buy it. The book was dedicated to his mother. 
It is interesting to read the original preface, suppressed 
in later editions, since it gives an insight into the spiritual 
condition of the poet at that time, long after the first fervor 
of his conversion. 

"The author of this book has not always thought as he 
thinks today. For a long time he wandered in contem- 
porary corruption, taking his part there through ignorance. 
Griefs, well merited, have since then warned him, and 
God has given him the grace to heed the warning. He is 
prostrated before the altar, so long unknown, he adores the 
All Good and invokes the All Powerful, a humble child 
of the Church, the least in merits but full of good will. 
The knowledge of his weakness and the memory of his 



218 GEEAT PENITENTS 

falls have guided him in the elaboration of this work, which 
is his first act of public faith after a long literary silence ; 
one will not find anything here, he hopes, contrary to this 
charity which the author, hereafter Christian, owes to 
sinners, whose odious morals he formerly and almost up 
to the present has practised. . . . The author pub- 
lished when very young, that is to say a dozen years ago, 
verses sceptical and sadly light. He dares to think that 
in these here there is no dissonance to shock the delicacy 
of the Catholic ear; that there is no such fault would be 
his dearest glory as it is his proudest hope." 

Oh, the pity that in time these good resolves disappeared 
and the poet gave to the world not only light verses but 
verses rankly obscene. 

Verlaine was now at the edge of the precipice. Lucien 
Letinois had died of typhoid. Verlaine was inconsolable 
at the loss of the youth whom he loved as a son. He wept 
in agony as he went to bury him. In time he found res- 
ignation, beautifully expressed in his book — Amour — 
written in memory of the youth. We can date the be- 
ginning of Verlaine' s new decline, moral and intellectual, 
from the passing out of his life of the good influence of 
Lucien Letinois. 

For a while Verlaine got work on the Reveil (which 
afterwards became the Echo de Paris), contributing short 
essays such as constituted later his books — Les Memoires 
dfun Yeuf and Quinze Jours en Hollande and Les Poetes 
Maudits. He wrote other prose at the same time and a 
new volume of verse Jadis et Naguere. In 1883 he re- 
turned to Belgium and made another attempt at the farm- 
ers life. His mother went with him. But it was the 
same old story. The ennui drove him to drink. He quar- 
reled with her, fell into bad company and became so ob- 
jectionable that she left him and went back to Paris, 
where he followed her. They returned again to the coun- 
try. But he drank again in spite of his good promises, 



PAUL VERLAINE 219 

and in one of his fits of drunkenness raised his hand against 
this old woman of seventy-five years whose only fault was 
that she loved him too well. For this offense he was im- 
prisoned for a month. After his release he sold the farm, 
at a loss of course, and came back to Paris. He was ill, 
weak, breaking up from his debauches. He that once had 
been so near sanctity ! 

The last years of Verlaine are a distressing study. His 
mother died in January, 1886. It was a black day for 
him and he was never any good after that. His life there- 
after was one of bad company, misery, sickness. With no 
money, he lodged in deplorable conditions, in the poorest 
district, sometimes in hovels where there was not even a 
floor. His wife remarried in 1886. In August, 1887, 
we find him writing that he did not have a sou. 

The life of poverty, of heavy drinking, of immorality 
soon broke down his body, naturally robust. Time and 
again he had to go to the hospitals, his only refuge. There 
he was forced to be sober, there he could work ; there, too, 
he could weep over his past sins. "All the maladies I 
have," he wrote in humility, "I have well deserved. I 
am able to say my mea culpa. I have burned my life, and 
so much the worse for me." The doctor who attended his 
death bed said that Verlaine had eight or ten mortal dis- 
eases. 

In the hospital he was contented for a while, but after 
a couple of weeks the ennui would seize him and he would 
go back to the hovels of the Latin Quarter. He was al- 
ways the big irresponsible child. It was this, perhaps, 
that drew so many friends to him. There was a certain 
fascination about him and no one could be angry with 
him for long. Even the police had orders not to arrest 
him no matter what his vagaries. Bad women preyed 
upon him, exploited him, made him support them. 

The last years, 1892 to 1896, were lamentable. He lived 
here, there, everywhere, drinking, carousing, a life of vul- 



220 GBEAT PENITENTS 

gar lust, even prostituting his wonderful poetic talent for a 
few pence in the writing of poems some of which were so 
positively indecent that they could not be published openly. 
He had lectured with much acclaim in Holland, in Bel- 
gium and in London, and had this late in life tasted the 
joys of popularity. But it was too late to redeem him. 
He had gone back to the vomit. Still there was some- 
thing of the old faith when he wrote in his Confessions 
(1895), "To conclude, as the Christian I have tried to be 
and who is not perhaps quite submerged, ought I not re- 
peat, speaking of my past, with that other great self-con- 
fessor, the adorable Bishop of Hippo — Domine, noverim 
Te — Lord, That I might know Thee I" 

The last days of the poet were tranquil enough. He 
had given up drinking and was assiduous at his work. 
About Christmas, 1895, he was taken ill and was obliged 
to keep to his room. Strange, his last poem was on Death. 
He was ill several days, neglected by the woman who preyed 
upon him. When help did come it was too late. He fell 
into a coma. The priest was sent for, but Verlaine was 
unconscious when he arrived. The poet died January 8, 
1896, "fortified by the Sacraments of the Church," the 
funeral notice read. 

When the news was spread about everybody in the world 
of letters came, a tribute to the genius of the man. Among 
those who came was Huysmans, also Coppee, who wept 
for his friend. Coppee was not far from that day that was 
to mark his own great conversion. The hour for the fu- 
neral had been set for two o'clock, but through the influ- 
ence of Coppee, sorry that no one had thought of having 
a Mass said for the poor soul, the hour was set for ten 
o'clock. Letters of condolence came from all parts of the 
world, the humble room was filled with flowers, and all 
Paris thronged to the funeral Mass at the Church of St. 
Etienne du Mont, Verlaine's parish church. Fifteen pages 
of a register were filled with the names of visitors to the 



PAUL VEELAIUE 221 

home of the dead poet. He was buried in the cemetery 
of Batignolles with his father and mother. The great 
writers of the day, such as Mendes and Coppee, pronounced 
his eulogy. Coppee' s tribute is a classic. 

So passed one who, as Maurice Barres says, "was the 
victim of his own genius. " 

In Mes Prisons (1891) Verlaine tells us that after his 
conversion he persevered for several years, and that relaxa- 
tion followed little by little, and then new falls; and he 
writes : "Irremediable ? Perhaps not, for God is merciful 
and has sent me afflictions, ruin in truly the most humble 
circumstances, deceptions, treasons from my scandalized 
neighbors. Oh, the catechism of Abbe Gaume! Oh, not 
to be able to read it again, not to want to read it again, 
perhaps, and this time to keep it! God, nevertheless, is 
merciful, and hope is a theological virtue which departs 
more willingly. Lord, have pity on us !" 

Yerlaine must remain always something of an enigma. 
But one thing is sure, he was at one time of his life a great 
penitent, near to God, even though his later relapse is all 
too plain. His friend, Lepelletier, will not admit his real 
conversion. He calls it, "a sort of religious conversion," 
a "theatrical religiosity, external and bookish." But we 
prefer to have the opinion of Huysmans. Verlaine loved 
Huysmans. Apropos of one of the books of Huysmans — 
La Bas — some one asked Verlaine if he had ever attended 
a Black Mass. The question irritated him. "Do you 
think me," he replied with vehemence, "so cockney or so 
sick as to give myself to those mummeries so infamous, 
so repugnant in themselves, so truly repugnant to the 
Catholic faith which I have always professed sincerely, 
notwithstanding all my weaknesses, all my errors?" 

In Verlaine there was the struggle between the senses 
and the soul, and no one knew it better than himself. He 
sinned; then he was ashamed of his sins. But his faith 
was never shaken. All, Catholics and unbelievers, recog- 



222 GEEAT PENITENTS 

nized him as a great Catholic poet, though many Catholics, 
and justly, too, suspected him on account of the life he was 
leading. Huysmans in 1904 wrote the Preface to the 
collection of the religious poems of Verlaine. He comes 
to the defence of the dead poet. He seeks, he says, to 
dissipate the misunderstanding which exists between Ver- 
laine and the faithful, distrustful of his person and his 
books, to make them understand that he was not the im- 
penitent sinner they suppose. "Unique, in effect, across 
the ages, he has recovered those accents of humility and 
candor, those prayers grieving and benumbed, that joy- 
fulness of the little child, forgotten since that return to 
the pride of paganism which the Renaissance was." 

Huysmans, big convert as he himself was, knew the hu- 
man heart, the weakness of human nature. It was not 
for him to throw stones at a sinner. He expresses his 
faith in the reality of Verlaine's break with sin. "The 
conversion of Verlaine was then entire. He lived then in 
his cell the new existence of sins wiped away by repent- 
ance and absolved by pardon; he was no longer the pris- 
oner discontented with men, but the captive enamoured of 
God; he experienced the sweetness of the St. Martin's 
summer of the soul which the Lord reserves for the reju- 
venated old age of His own; there were for weeks the 
pouring out of prayers, joys softened by tears ; as all peni- 
tents he was fondled (spoiled) by the Virgin, rolled in 
the swaddling-clothes of tenderness; he had an advance 
of his inheritance of the joys of Heaven, and he ended 
by thinking the punishment of his imprisonment too short. 
So one can affirm that his resolve henceforth to live right 
was sincere." Verlaine, says he, was a big child whose 
will would not hold with conscientiousness when he drank ; 
the absinthe "uncaged in him, alas, an evil beast delivered 
without defence to the Spirit of Evil. He deplored it, 
swore never to drink again, and he drank." He lived, 
unavoidably, in the midst of wicked men and women, who 






PAUL VE ELAINE 223 

were always a temptation. Some of his friends tried to 
redeem him from them, but in drink Verlaine was indocile, 
headstrong. "What he needed," says Huysmans, "was 
some priest to lead him, but God did not send him one. 
Hence," he adds, "Verlaine was more to be pitied than 
blamed, the more so that he had awakenings of conscience, 
of remorse, in this wretched existence." Ah, be assured, 
that he was not in his lucid moments the haughty, the 
light-hearted one; he wept with disgust at himself; per- 
haps he even drank then, as so many others, to forget. 
Safe from temptations in the hospital he could write mys- 
tic poems, he could pour out his heart to her he loved so 
much, the "Refuge of Sinners" ; he could write then "the 
most beautiful poems of repentance and the most beautiful 
rhymed supplications that exist." 

So also Coppee. Addressing Huysmans in La Bonne 
Souffrance, he says : "A wind has passed — spiritus flat ubi 
vult — and religious words have been spoken by mouths 
whence one would not expect to hear them. The poor 
Verlaine began it You recall the admirable plaints of 
penitence in Sagesse." 

Many affected to despise Verlaine. There was, indeed, 
much about him that was ignoble. But to such poets and 
penitents as Huysmans and Coppee he was always "Poor 
Verlaine." Perhaps that is what will remain of him, the 
memory not of the old man, old before his time, drunk with 
absinthe, frequenting low dives, the companion of loose, 
scheming women, the relapsed sinner who was the weakest 
of mortals, but the weeping sinner, crushed to earth in his 
prison cell, rising from his knees to chant through his tears 
some of the most beautiful penitential psalms ever writ- 
ten. Poor Verlaine! 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 

SAINT TEEESA always had a special devotion to 
those saints who once had been great sinners. She 
found comfort in thinking of their conversion, 
praying that through their intercession God would forgive 
her as He had forgiven them. She had devotion in par- 
ticular to St. Mary Magdalen and to St. Augustine. 

For that very reason the life of the great penitent 
makes an appeal to all of us. God forgave him ; the real- 
ization of that fact induces us to hope that He will also 
forgive us. More than that, the true penitent is always 
a living testimony to the truth of religion. Men do not 
leave the pleasures of sin, do not afflict their bodies with 
the scourging rod and the hair-shirt for a mere whim. 
Hardly. It is because they are convinced that their true 
happiness, their eternal happiness, can be had but at the 
price of tears shed over the evil they have done. It is 
their personal testimony to the belief in the necessity of 
penance. To them penitence is a plain statement of fact ; 
there is nothing heroic in their eyes in their own suffering 
for sin, in their turning away from the allurements of the 
world to follow God. It is just a plain need ; if they want 
Heaven they know they must do penance, for there is no 
Heaven for the man in sin. We might call that the com- 
mon sense of religion, even though it is a common sense 
very much derided in these days when there are so many 
who affect to believe that Hell and the punishment of sin 
is just a sorry little joke on the part of God. Just plain 
common sense we could call it, for it is a strange fact that 
there is no people, no religion which does not profess at 

224 



A LIT AX Y OF PE XI TEXTS 225 

least to believe that to obtain from its god or gods the re- 
mission of sins committed it is necessary to have a sincere 
regret for past faults and a firm purpose to sin no more ; 
while most of them agree that every bad action requires a 
real; a corporal expiation. So, with the Egyptians, the 
Greeks, the Syrians, the Eomans, with nearly all the peo- 
ples of antiquity this expiation of sin was a religious truth ; 
there could be no initiation into the mysteries without such 
expiation. It was, too, a fundamental dogma of the 
Brahmins, the Buddhists, the negroes of Africa, the In- 
dians of America. In this universally surviving truth 
there is seen, of course, the remnant of primitive revela- 
tion and the history of the primal fall. 

Xeedless to quote the numberless passages in Sacred 
Scripture w T herein God requires the sinner, if he would be 
saved, to do penance. The Old Testament is one contin- 
ual appeal to penance. The penitential psalms are the 
classics of the poems of repentance. The history of King 
David is the example that never stales of the folly of sin 
and of the w 7 isdom of coming back to God in humble re- 
gret at ever having left Him. As Saint Ambrose says: 
"David seems to have sinned that he might at once become 
an example of penitence/' 

In the Xew Testament the teaching of the necessity of 
penance is more insistent still. "Do penance, for the 
Kingdom of Heaven is at hand." So declares the Lord 
(St. Matthew IV, 17). "Amen, I say to you, unless you 
do penance you shall not enter into the Kingdom of 
Heaven" (St. Matthew, XVIII, 3). "Unless you do pen- 
ance, you shall ail likewise perish" (St. Luke, XIII, 5). 
And, indeed, how lovingly the inspired writers tell the 
story of the first great penitents of the Xew Law, Magda- 
len, Peter, the Good Thief. Jesus was the "friend" of 
sinners. We read in an old book that when a zealous pas- 
tor named Carpus was weary in trying to reclaim an ob- 
stinate sinner in vain, Christ in a vision rebuked him, tell- 



226 GREAT PENITENTS 

ing him He was ready to die a second time for the salva- 
tion of sinners. 

What the Master taught, so also taught His apostles. 
Their great message is, "Do penance; be converted to 
God." How St. Paul must have wept and prayed for the 
soul of the slave Onesimus — Onesimus, the thief, who had 
robbed his master, Philemon, and then run away for fear. 
By the grace of God he met Paul, then a prisoner at Rome, 
and the great Apostle of the Gentiles converted the poor 
slave to God, sent him back to his master, and obtained his 
deliverance. Not only from material bondage was Onesi- 
mus freed but from the greater bondage of sin. He is 
one of the first great penitents of the Church. More strik- 
ing is the beautiful story we read in the life of St. John 
the Evangelist. On one of his visitations while he was 
preaching he was very much attracted to a handsome youth 
in the congregation. Won to the lad, he brought him to 
the bishop of the city and said to him, "In the presence of 
Christ and before this congregation, I earnestly recom- 
mend this young man to your care." 

The bishop took the trust, educated the lad, baptized 
and confirmed him. Soon the boy fell into wickedness and 
ended by becoming the leader of a band of highway rob- 
bers. Some time after that St. John returned to the 
city and asked the bishop for the trust he had committed 
to him. What a surprise and grief was his when he 
learned the terrible truth. He wept bitterly. "Oh," said 
he, "what a guardian have I provided to watch over a 
brother's soul!" Off he rode to the mountains and, being 
seized by the robbers, asked to be led to their leader. When 
the youth saw his old friend, he was covered with confu- 
sion and sought to run aw T ay from him. But St. John 
pursued him, crying out, "My son, have compassion on me. 
There is room for repentance; your salvation is not irre- 
vocable. I will answer for you to Jesus Christ." The 
robber dropped his weapons and burst into tears. He was 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 227 

henceforth a true penitent, reclaimed by him whose one 
sermon in his old age was, "Little children, love one an- 
other." 

That message of repentance the Church has continued 
to repeat. Sorrow for sin is to be a new baptism, "the 
baptism of tears/' as St. Cyprian calls it. Hence the 
Church in her practices, her law of Lent, her laws about 
fasting and abstinence, but gives the expression of her be- 
lief that sin once done must be atoned for. It is the law 
of satisfaction. To the Church sin is always the only 
evil. She never minimizes that evil ; and it is because she 
knows how great an evil it is that when she succeeds in 
putting her own conviction into the hearts of her children 
that she falls to rejoicing, in imitation of her Divine 
Founder, the Good Shepherd, Who rejoiced over the sheep 
that had been lost and now was found again. Rejoice she 
does over the return of the sinner but, true Mother that 
she is, she is not the doting mother that would spoil with 
too much kindness the wayward one. She would welcome 
home the sinner, but her love indicates that there is some- 
thing else to be done besides the mere wish to return. 
The sinner has to prove himself. Hence the system of 
public penance which, so long in vogue in the early Church, 
strikes terror into our weak souls today because of its 
severity. To read the penitential canons of the past with 
the years of penance assigned to various sins, five years for 
this, twenty-five for that, is to make us tremble at the little 
penances at which we grumble. 

It was in the second century and at the beginning of 
the third that the penitential discipline of the Church was 
most severe. It was then, as it were, a great concession to 
a man who had sinned grievously to be allowed even to 
begin his penance. Penance was a painful operation nec- 
essary for the lasting cure of the sin-diseased soul. Not 
only was the Church's concern for the sinner himself, but 
the example of the penances he was made to endure was 



228 GKEAT PENITENTS 

to keep others from falling by striking terror into them 
at the sight of the penalties which sin exacted. Hence 
permission to do penance and so become reconciled to the 
Church was given only to those who showed unmistakably 
that they were in earnest. There was to be no dilly dally- 
ing with sin ; it must be cast aside absolutely. The sinner 
must beg to be allowed to come back home, and until he 
had obtained that permission, he must be an outcast from 
the faith, not even allowed to take part in the public offices 
of the Church he had so disgraced. When he was granted 
permission to begin his penitential life he came on the first 
Wednesday in Lent and had the bishop and the clergy im- 
pose hands on him as they prayed. He was barefoot, his 
hair clipped, ashes upon his head, and his clothing was of 
the poorest kind. He prostrated himself on the ground 
and then the sentence according to the laws of the Church 
was pronounced upon him. He was told how many years 
he must do penance, the practices of austerity he must 
submit to, and urged piously to humility and to a spirit 
of true mortification. 

There were generally four states of penance; the first 
was for the penitent to remain outside the Church and beg 
all the faithful who entered to plead his case with God and 
with the bishop. After he had finished that course of pen- 
ance he was permitted to stand in the portico of the 
Church and be present at the prayers before the Mass. 
His real penance began with the third step when he was 
allowed to enter the nave of the Church and assist at the 
Mass of the Catechumens. He left the Church with them 
before the Mass of the Faithful. Before he advanced to 
the fourth step he had the hands of the bishop again im- 
posed upon him and heard the prayers offered up for him. 
And finally he came to the fourth step when he was al- 
lowed to participate in all the prayers and celebrations of 
the Church and to assist at the Holy Sacrifice, being al- 
lowed, however, to receive Communion only after the sol- 



A LITAXY OF PE XI TEXTS 229 

emn declaration of the bishop that the penance was com- 
pleted. After such a penance there was little danger of 
relapse. Drastic the remedy was, but effective, as the 
Church well knew. Well could she be proud of her work 
of reclamation through such trials and tears. 

Seeing that the solicitude of the Church for the sinner 
is so great, it is not surprising that the penitent has always 
been a noted figure. He is always the prodigal welcomed 
home; he is the experienced traveler who assures us on 
his life that what God said was true, that there was no 
real happiness in sin, that it was folly to cast aside inno- 
cence of heart for the husks of pleasure, that the only real 
wisdom of life is to love God and serve Him alone. For 
that reason the study of the lives of great penitents is one 
of the most salutary ; useful not only to the sinner as show- 
ing him his miserable folly, convincing him by example 
of the eagerness of God to welcome him home, but also to 
the man who has never sinned grievously, as telling him 
that the life of sin which sometimes seems so alluring is, 
after all, not worth while; that in the end it has to be 
regretted ; and what sense is there in doing what one will 
have to regret ? 

The example of penance has always been cherished in 
Christian literature. One could make a litany of peni- 
tents out of the lives of the Fathers of the Desert. What 
penitents they were even though in most of them there 
never had been any grievous sin! It was the example of 
these terrific penances that drew thousands away from 
the world, that made the desert bloom with the innumer- 
able flowers of holiness, watered by the tears of the peni- 
tents. Those were the ages of penance par excellence. 
But in all ages there have been great penitents: "His 
mercy is from generation to generation to them that fear 
Him." The Church has always provided for those who 
are weary of serving the world and w^ish to return to God. 
One sees that in the many penitential orders, as they are 



230 GEEAT PENITENTS 

called, wherein the members of these orders take the obliga- 
tion upon themselves to do extraordinary works of penance, 
or provide for others the means of atoning for great sins. 
The same spirit is seen in the confraternities of penitents 
who publish to the world even by their manner of dress 
that they are poor sinners anxious to atone for their sins. 
"To bring forth fruits worthy of penance;" so entreated 
the Baptist. That has been the aim of all who have sought 
holiness. Even in the lives where there has been no great 
sin we see extraordinary penance. Sometimes the grief of 
the saints over their petty faults would seem to us almost 
an exaggeration, but their yearning for perfection, their 
burning love for God, made even the venial sin seem to 
them an extraordinary crime of ingratitude. So we read 
of the grief of some of the saints over what we of untender 
consciences would dismiss almost as a joke. 

We are told that when St. Thomas, Bishop of Hereford, 
was young and studying philosophy at Paris he took the 
prop of a vine from another man's vineyard in order to hold 
up his window. And so great was his remorse afterwards 
for the petty theft that he did severe penance for it sev- 
en longs years. So, too, we read in the life of St. Philip 
Neri that once when he was a little boy he pushed away his 
little sister who was teasing him while he was reading the 
psalter ; all his life he bewailed this as a great fault. St. 
Ephrem would always bewail the little fits of anger he had 
against his playmates in the days before his baptism. 
St. Macarius the Elder, a wonderful penitent, had stolen 
some figs as a child and had eaten one of them. From the 
day of his conversion to the day of his death be bemoaned 
that sin. St. Walston, Bishop of Worcester, was once 
tempted to a sinful thought. It was only a temptation but 
it so disturbed his conscience that he threw himself into a 
thicket and there bewailed his fault. Yet the same man 
was always so tender with penitents that he would weep 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 231 

over them. The great St. Anselm would cry over the 
petty faults which to his pure eyes seemed great. In the 
life of St. Conrad of Piacenza we read that one day he 
ordered one of his servants to set fire to some brushwood. 
The fire got beyond control and a conflagration was the 
result. A poor beggar was accused of the crime and was 
sentenced to death. Conrad at once assumed the blame 
and even sold all his property in order to make up the 
losses which his innocent action had caused. So filled was 
he with penance that he retired to a hermitage, while his 
wife entered the Poor Clares. For thirty years he led a 
life of austere penance. 

It was because their souls were so tender that they wept 
over even these little faults. To them tears were sweet so 
long as they were shed for God. Penance was their love ; 
it was such a very little thing to bear great sorrow so long 
as the pain brought them to eternal life. Thus when St. 
Peter of Alcantara appeared to St. Teresa, he said, "0 
happy penance, which hath obtained me so great a reward !" 
"What mattered the sufferings of the body while the spirit 
was dwelling with the angels. That was why Saint Francis 
of Asissi called his body "Brother Ass" — because it was 
to carry burdens, to be beaten, and to eat little and coarsely. 

The litany of penitents is as cosmopolitan as the litany 
of the saints. From every age and country and station in 
life their cry of sorrow ascends to Heaven. A litany could 
be made even of the names of the penitents "that are in 
the houses of kings." High station in the world may be 
nothing to brag about, but there is always a specially 
striking lesson in the conversion of the high and mighty. 
Surely it takes a great grace from God to make the king or 
the gay courtier humble himself in the dust. St. Igna- 
tius, St. Francis Borgia are all the more convincing in 
that they sacrificed much that the world holds dear in order 
to walk the way of the Cross. It is not easy for the ruler 
of men to put off his soft purple and fine linen for the 



232 GEE AT PENITENTS 

hair-shirt and the ashes. But it is not an isolated story in 
the history of penitents. Not in vain had King David 
given the example of bitter tears. One loves to be told 
that the doughty Richard Cceur de Lion died showing signs 
of sincere repentance and so won his greatest battle, that 
over himself. It was the same spirit that converted the 
French King, Dagobert I, from a dissolute life to one of 
holiness on the occasion of the birth of his son who was 
to be the great St. Sigebert II. What a cheap bauble 
was the crown to the man who knew himself to be a 
miserable sinner. 

In all history there is no more striking example of 
humbled royalty than that of the great Emperor Theo- 
dosius. A general of great probity and valor, he had 
triumphed over the barbarians in Britain and Africa. The 
Emperor Gratian had such respect for him that he finally 
made him his colleague, and emperor of the East, in 379. 
St. Ambrose in 390 was holding a council at Milan when 
the news was brought that a dreadful massacre had been 
committed at Thessalonica. A charioteer had been impris- 
oned for an offense he had committed, and the people were 
so enraged because the authorities would not release him 
in order that he might perform in the circus that some of 
the officers were stoned to death and their bodies dragged 
through the streets. Theodosius when he heard of the 
affair was very angry, but Ambrose and the other bishops 
finally prevailed upon him to overlook the crime. Other 
advisers, however, urged him to put down the insolence 
of the public, and at last orders were given to send the 
soldiers against the city. While the people were in the 
circus the soldiers surrounded them and a slaughter took 
place which lasted three hours; seventeen thousand were 
massacred. Ambrose and the other bishops were filled 
with horror at the terrible crime. When Theodosius re- 
turned to Milan, Ambrose left the city and sent a letter to 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 233 

him telling him that he must do penance and that until he 
did he would not celebrate Mass before him. 

When Ambrose returned, Theodosius as usual came to 
church. But Ambrose faced him at the door. "It seems 
to me, sir," said the fearless bishop, "that you do not yet 
rightly apprehend the enormity of the massacre lately com- 
mitted. Let not the splendor of your purple robes hinder 
you from being acquainted with the infirmities of that body 
which they cover. You are of the same mould with those 
subjects which you govern ; and there is one common Lord 
and Emperor of the world. With what eyes will you 
behold His temple ? With what feet will you tread His 
sanctuary ? How will you lift up to Him in prayer those 
hands which are still stained with blood unjustly spilt? 
Depart, therefore, and attempt not by a second offence to 
aggravate your former crime, but quietly take the yoke 
upon you which the Lord has appointed for you. It is 
sharp, but it is medicinal, and conducive to your health. " 
The emperor tried to defend himself by suggesting that 
David, too, had sinned. But Ambrose replied : "Him 
whom you have followed in sinning follow also in his 
repentance." Theodosius returned home, humbled. For 
eight months he did penance, clad in penitential weeds, and 
weeping abundantly over his sin. Rufinus, the master of 
the offices, tried to soothe him by telling him that there 
was no need of such grief inasmuch as he had only punished 
criminals. "Rufinus," replied the emperor, "thou dost 
but make sport and mock me. Thou little knowest the 
anguish and trouble I feel. I weep and wail my miserable 
condition. The Church of God is open to beggars and 
slaves ; but the church doors, and consequently the gates of 
Heaven, too, are shut against me. For our Lord has 
peremptorily declared that whatever you shall bind on 
earth shall be bound in Heaven." 

When the emperor finally begged Ambrose to absolve 



234 GEE AT PENITENTS 

him, the great bishop ordered him to take his place with 
the public penitents. Theodosius obeyed ; he knelt at the 
church door among the penitents repeating David's cries 
of sorrow. He beat his breast, tore his hair, and confessed 
his sin while the people wept with him. What an edifying 
sight to see the great emperor humbled in the dust ! 
Ambrose absolved him. It was love for the sinner that 
closed his eyes to the worldly grandeur of the emperor. 
It was the greatest blessing that could come to Theodosius. 
Every day till the day of his death he continued to do 
penance for his sin. He had the happiness to die in the 
arms of the bishop who had withstood him. It was 
Ambrose, too, that preached his funeral sermon. 

One of the most thrilling stories of penance is that of 
St. James of Persia (A. D. 421). He was a nobleman 
of the highest rank, a man of fine talent, and a great 
favorite of the king. He was a Christian but apparently 
only a nominal one, for when the king proclaimed war 
against Christianity, James lacked the courage to confess 
himself a member of the hated religion, and denied his 
God. It was so hard to give up his place in the world for 
a mere matter of conscience ! His wife and his mother, 
who were devout Christians, were heartbroken at his defec- 
tion, and they wrote him a letter taunting him with his 
cringing before a mortal man and threatening him with 
the Divine justice he must one day face. James was moved 
by the fearless letter, and began to think of his terrible 
sin of apostasy. He left the court which had been the 
cause of his downfall and bewailed in tears his denial of 
the faith. The king was told of his favorite's penance and 
sending for him reproached him with ingratitude. But 
James did not heed the reproaches of the earthly monarch ; 
he saw himself as a wretched sinner, an ingrate to his God. 
The end of it all was that the gay young courtier was 
called upon to do penance in his blood for the sin he had 
committed. He was hacked to pieces. He did not flinch. 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 235 

He knew that all the agony that could be inflicted upon 
him was little enough to atone for his crime of apostasy. 

That is one thing about the great penitents ; they set no 
bounds to what they wish to endure in atonement. It was 
so with another nobleman, St. Bavo, the patron saint of 
Ghent, who lived in the seventh century. For years he 
had led a life of sin, when one day, some time after the 
death of his wife, he listened to a sermon preached by St. 
Amand. So deeply was his heart touched that on the 
instant he was converted from his wickedness. He followed 
the preacher and threw himself in tears at the feet of the 
holy man. Weeping bitterly, he confessed himself the 
lowest of sinners, and begged to be directed how to atone 
for his past. Amand was not too tender with the convert ; 
he knew that here was a great sinner who needed to do 
great penance. The saints while tender with sinners never 
minimize the horror of sin. Bavo made his confession. 
He was done with the world now ; he sold all his property 
and gave the proceeds to the poor, one of the hardest pen- 
ances for any man to do. In time he became a hermit, 
building for himself a cell and living all the rest of his 
days on herbs and water, thinking all suffering but small 
in comparison with the goal to which it led. We read in 
his life that so great was the example of his penance that 
sixty other noblemen left the world to lead a life of the 
most austere penance. Taken from these ages long gone 
by, these penitents may seem but as mere names, but we 
must not forget that they were all men like ourselves, to 
whom pleasure was just as sweet, the smell of life just as 
attractive, and the practice of self-denial just as repellent. 
For that reason every one of them must be a hero to us 
poor weaklings. 

The story of St. Hubert has always been a popular 
one in art and poetry. Hubert was a worldling if ever 
there was one. The gay court was his world ; he thought 
little of the things of the spirit. One thing to which he 



236 GEEAT PENITENTS 

was especially devoted was hunting. The legend goes that 
one Good Friday when everybody else was at the solemn 
services of the Church, he went forth to hunt. A magnifi- 
cent stag came across his path and at once he gave chase to 
it. Suddenly the animal turned. Hubert saw a crucifix 
between the antlers, and heard a voice which said to him : 
"Hubert, unless thou turnest to the Lord and leadest a 
holy life, thou shalt quickly go down into Hell." The 
huntsman prostrated himself upon the ground and cried 
out, "Lord, what wouldst Thou have me do?" Henceforth 
his life was one of rigorous penance, of devotion to the 
service of God as first bishop of Liege and as apostle of the 
Ardennes. So earnest was he in his penitence that he 
longed to wipe out his sins by the blood of martyrdom. 
But God had other work for him to do, and Hubert lived 
his saintly life giving to the world he had left the example 
of sorrow for sin (727). 

One likes to linger over the story of Blessed Gunther of 
Bohemia. He was of a noble family, was related to St. 
Stephen, King of Hungary, and had the world at his feet. 
The court was his life; its pleasures filled his mind, and 
his one thought was to rise in the world. He was fifty 
years of age when the call to conversion came. Thence- 
forth his life was one of mortification in atonement for his 
sins. For thirty-four years he led the life of a hermit, a 
life of tears and pain, yet considered it all cheap in com- 
parison with the joys of Heaven for which he labored 
(1045). 

A contemporary of his was St. Bomuald, founder of 
the order of the Camaldolese. He belonged to the family 
of the dukes of Ravenna, and was a thorough worldling, a 
slave to his sinful passions. The occasion of his conversion 
was a strange one. His father Sergius slew his adversary 
in a duel. Romuald, then twenty years of age, was a wit- 
ness of the crime, and so shocked was he by it that he 
thought it necessary for him to expiate the crime of his 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 237 

father in a monastery. There he went through a course 
of rigorous penance for forty days. The penance won his 
soul to God ; from doing penance for the sins of his father 
he saw the need of doing penance for his own sins. From 
that day till his death at seventy, through hard labors for 
the Church, through terrible temptations in the memory 
of the luxuries of the court he had quitted, he atoned for 
the sins of his youth (1027). 

How often in the history of the saints we see repeated 
the manner of the conversion of St. Paul, struck to the 
ground by a blow from Heaven. That was the case with 
St. John Gualbert. His parents were of the nobility, 
with an abundance of wealth. Young John had a great 
future in the world. He lived as a great lord, was full 
of family pride, a law unto himself. Very poor material, 
indeed, for a saint; and no one would have laughed as 
heartily as the young courtier himself had any one sug- 
gested that he would ever exchange his fine silks and satins 
for the ugly hair-shirt. 

One day his brother Hugo was murdered and John 
determined to have revenge. To this he was incited by 
his father, for the honor of the family demanded that blood 
should be paid for by blood. As in the case of St. 
Hubert the conversion took place on Good Friday. John 
was riding home with his attendant when in a very narrow 
passage he came face to face with his enemy. He drew 
his sword to execute his vengeance, when the other threw 
himself from his horse, fell on his knees and with his arms 
extended in the form of a cross begged John by the Passion 
of Christ to spare him. The bloodthirsty John felt the 
heart within him melt. "I can refuse nothing," he said, 
"that is asked of me for the sake of Jesus Christ. I not 
only give you your life, but also my friendship forever. 
Pray for me that God may pardon my sin." The two 
former enemies embraced and parted. John came to a 
monastery and entering the Church prayed before the 



238 GEEAT PENITENTS 

Crucifix and in tears begged God to forgive him his sins. 
The story goes that in answer to his appeal and as a reward 
for his heroic act of forgiveness the Crucifix bowed to 
him. A thorough conversion was effected in the heart of 
the man. He threw himself at the feet of the abbot and 
asked to be received into the monastery. The abbot was 
afraid of the anger of John's father, but he permitted him 
to live there in his secular habit. That would not do John, 
however; he cut his own hair and borrowed a religious 
habit. When the father came, angrily protesting against 
such a course, John finally prevailed upon him to allow 
him to remain and follow the will of God which had been 
manifested so clearly to him. The rest of life was for the 
penitent an austere one. From a hot, impulsive youth he 
became meek and humble. Yet with that continual pen- 
ance there went great service for the Church. At the time 
of his death he had founded twelve monasteries. So great 
was his practical charity to the poor that often he would 
empty the granaries of the monasteries to feed them. As 
in the case of all the other saints, the greater the penance 
the greater the charity. Sometimes we are given an idea 
of penitents as poor useless beings wasting their time in 
idle grief ; nothing is further from the truth. St. Peter 
could weep penitent tears till his cheeks were furrowed, 
but who was ever more active ? So with all these other 
men of God; the more they realized their own sins, the 
greater their zeal for the souls of others. Your great peni- 
tent is never a man of selfishness. 

The description of the penance and the tears of St. 
Norbert (1134) is one of the most edifying stories we have 
in the lives of the saints. He belonged to the world of the 
nobility, loved the life of ease and pleasure which was his 
birthright and went on his way singing. One day he was 
thrown from his horse in the midst of a terrific thunder 
storm. "Lord," he cried in fright, "what wilt Thou have 
me do ?" The answer came : "Turn away from evil and 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 239 

do good; seek after peace and pursue it." It was in the 
ways of penance he sought and found that peace. Through 
a long life of penance he never ceased to meditate on the 
mercy of God, which had given him a chance when so 
many others had been thrown into Hell. 

The desire to do penance impelled the saints to heroism. 
St. John Capistran had the world at his feet, and then 
he kicked it away from him. To him there seemed nothing 
worth while in life but to do penance. He had not been 
what we would call a great sinner, nevertheless he was a 
great penitent. When he sought admission into a Fran- 
ciscan monastery, the guardian, who knew the nobleman's 
history, and how much he had loved the world, in order to 
try him out, ordered him to don a ridiculous dress and ride 
on an ass through the streets of Perugia, with a paper cap 
on his head on which the names of many grievous sins were 
written in capital letters. It was a severe trial to the rich 
young man, once the nice dandy, but he did not shirk it. 
He was willing to be considered a fool for the sake ofi 
Christ. Henceforth his life was a terrible penance. It 
was that same spirit of sorrow for sin that gave such power 
to his sermons. One sermon he preached on death and 
judgment in Bohemia moved one hundred and twenty 
young men to enter religious orders. There never was 
absent from him the thought of his sins. He often declared 
that God treated him with too much leniency. The old 
man of seventy-one died on the floor, a humble penitent. 

Then, too, there was St. Ennodius, of one of the great 
families of France, related to all the great lords of his 
day. The world was bright to him ; he was married to a 
rich and noble woman, he was talented, devoted to elo- 
quence and poetry. But he had sinned. One day the grace 
of God touched his heart and he was moved to weep bit- 
terly over his sins. With the consent of his wife, who 
embraced a life of continency, he took orders and thence- 
forth gave his life, his literary talents, to the service of the 



240 GEEAT PENITENTS 

Church, in which he attained a high position as Bishop of 
Pavia. He endured many things for the faith, but gave 
great lustre to the See he so well served. One thinks of 
him, however, not as the great bishop but rather as the 
poor penitent who had tasted of the sweets of sin yet saw 
how all turned to ashes on the lips. 

It w T as not always the man of the world that was the 
penitent. Sometimes we find the virtue wonderfully exem- 
plified in the lives of the young. Such a one was St. 
Andrew Corsini. The Corsini family was one of the most 
illustrious in Florence. Andrew, the child of pious 
parents, the result, indeed, of prayer, and consecrated to 
God before his birth, fell into wickedness as a mere boy. 
One day his pious mother, like another Monica grieving 
over the dead soul of her child, reproached him for his evil 
life. So touched was the boy that he went to the Church of 
the Carmelites to pray and think the matter over. There 
came to him then a resolution never to go back home again, 
but to leave the world and do penance for his youthful 
wickedness. From that time till the day of his death at 
the age of seventy-one he never lost his first fervor. It 
was a life of stern penance, with his hair-shirt, his iron 
girdle and his humble bed of pine branches on the floor, 
a life of perpetual prayer and tears that finally sanctified 
the soul which once w T as on the edge of perdition. It was 
a noble life of the service of God and His poor ; but through 
it all sounded the lamentations of one who had been a 
sinner (1373). 

So goes the litany from one age to another. The royal 
courts, the palaces of the nobles have given all too many 
examples of the service of the world, the flesh and 
the devil; yet there is also the other side of the pic- 
ture, of wonderful sanctity, of the garment of sack- 
cloth underneath the fine linen. So much is said in mem- 
oirs of the evil life of the Duchess de la Valliere, for in- 
stance; so little of such men as the Jesuit, Pere Aineet, 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 241 

who resigned his office as confessor to Louis XIV because 
that monarch would not give up his illicit attachment for 
the Duchess. We like to return again and again to the 
days of the Bourbons when the court of France was a bat- 
tle ground where the spirit of sin and the spirit of pen- 
ance were in continual conflict among mesdames and mes- 
sieurs. "To die well, to die penitent/' says Guizot, "was 
in those days a solicitude which never left the most 
worldly." The Prince of Conti died devout; even De 
Retz made his peace with God. Mazarin in the shadow of 
death saw the vanity of life. "I have misgivings/' said 
he to his confessor, "about not being sufficiently afraid of 
death." Toward the end, when he was commiserated for 
his sufferings, he humbly said, "I shall have a great deal 
more to suffer." When Berulle brought the Carmelites 
from Spain to France the convent soon numbered among 
its penitents women of the highest rank in the world. It 
was there that Mme. de Longueville did penance for 
twenty-five years. "Now that I make not a single step 
which does not lead me to death/' wrote the young favorite, 
Cinq Mars, to his mother, "I am more capable than any- 
body else of estimating the value of the things of the 
world." When he went forth to his death, wrote the Coun- 
cillor of State, he "showed a never changing and very reso- 
lute firmness to death, together with admirable calmness 
and the constancy and devotion of a Christian." As his 
friend de Thou said to him as he marched to the scaffold, 
"Enough of this world ; away to Paradise." It was thus 
that the two young courtiers recovered their faith in God 
there in the valley of the shadow of death; and both had 
been near to losing their souls at the royal court. 

"Enough of this world ; away to Paradise." Often the 
same sentiments have been expressed at the approach of 
death by those whose lives have been so scandalous that 
their return to God seemed impossible. Who would have 
expected a change of heart on the part of the licentious, 



242 G E E A T PENITENTS 

renegade Talleyrand. A persecutor of the Church whose 
holy orders he had received, he was declared by his own 
episcopal chapter as "deserving infamy in this world and 
damnation in the next." He had reached the heights of 
power as a statesman, he had attained the glory of the 
world, but in the end it brought only affliction of spirit. 
Every night Bishop de Quelen prayed for the conversion 
of the notorious sinner: "O my God, I ask for the con- 
version of M. de Talleyrand. I offer my life to obtain it, 
and I willingly consent never to hear of it if only I can 
obtain it." The humble prayer was answered. Some time 
before his death Tallevi-and humbled himself by signing 
an open retraction of his errors. He made his confession 
and received the last Sacraments. His repentance was 
earnest and he died fervently praying to the Mother of 
God, for whom he had always had a sentiment of devotion. 
Talleyrand then saw that his wisdom which he had thought 
so great was but the folly of the heedless prodigal. It 
was only by a great grace from God that a Talleyrand 
could humble himself to admit that he had been a fool. 

'Not the least prominent position in the litany of great 
penitents is held by those who once had been great soldiers. 
It is hard to exaggerate the part played by the warriors in 
the early ages of Christianity in helping to propagate the 
faith. A great army could be numbered out of the fighting 
men whose military career finally led them to martyrdom 
in the arena. Some of them had served the world all too 
well, had led lives of wickedness in the camp till the grace 
of God humbled them into weeping penitents. 

Such a one was St. Joannicius, once a driver of hogs, 
then a soldier in the Guards of the Emperor Constantine. 
A big, robust fellow he was, fearless, who had won fame 
by many brilliant military exploits. His life, however, 
was one of moral rottenness, and in addition to that as an 
Iconoclast he took part in the persecution of the Church. 
By the grace of God he was at last converted after a con- 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 243 

versation with a holy monk. From that time on no pen- 
ance was too great for him to atone for his past wicked- 
ness. During the six years that he remained in the army 
after that his whole life seemed to be made of tears, fasting 
and prayer. At the age of forty he left the army and 
became a monk; and from that day till the day of his 
death at the great age of one hundred and sixteen he was 
one of the greatest penitents the Church ever had. It is a 
great line, that of the soldier penitents, with such wonder- 
ful heroes as St. Ignatius Loyola, St. John Camillus, 
St. John of God, and in our own day the young Italian 
soldier, Giosue Borsi, great sinner, great penitent, great 
ascetic, great patriot, a man whose literary testament, "A 
Soldier's Confidences with God," is destined to become 
one of the great books of the ages. 

From every walk of life, indeed, there goes the procession 
of sin-weary penitents into the vale of tears. God's grace 
softens the hardest hearts. Even the apostate doctor, 
Pantaleon, who sacrificed his faith for worldly ambition, 
was allowed to come back and atone for his sins by shed- 
ding his blood as a martyr. Today the apostate Pantaleon, 
tomorrow the great martyr, St. Pantaleon. What hope 
there is to the sinner who reads the story of the "Seven 
Robbers" who became the seven martyrs; in the story of 
the outlaw, Talon, notorious in the Middle Ages, who after 
having assisted at the execution of Aime du Poncet became 
a sincere penitent and willingly embraced death as a little 
atonement for the evil life he had led. What an inspira- 
tion there is in the stories of the penitent women, from 
Magdalen down ! One could compile a litany of penitents 
from the old stories of sorrowing women, of such heroines 
of atonement as St. Mary of Egypt, St. Pelagia, St. Thais, 
St. Margaret of Cortona, Blessed Angela of Foligno, who, 
after having drunk the cup of shame to the bitter dregs, 
braved the ridicule of the world they had so long served 
and put off the soft garments for the sackcloth and ashes. 



244 GEE AT PENITENTS 

Over and over again it is the same story of Magdalen, 
the woman once a sinner now suffered to behold face to 
face her risen Master. 

But the greatest victory for the spirit of penance was 
that won over the intellectuals. And how endless the list 
is. The proudest intellect of all, Augustine, became the 
model of lowliest penitence. It was the same spirit that 
led Prudentius to become an ardent penitent, fasting every 
day until night, using his literary talent to glorify God 
and to atone for the sins of his youth. It was the same 
spirit which made the penitent Chaucer disclaim those 
books of his which he thought a consonant with sin" ; which 
turned the gallant, self-sufficient Racine into a lowly peni- 
tent. Several of Racine's daughters were nuns ; it was no 
doubt by their prayers he came back to God. "He was 
loving towards God," said his son, "when he returned to 
Him." The life of all the penitents is summed up in these 
words. How edifying are the last days of La Fontaine. 
"O my dear friend," said he to one of his companions, "to 
die is nothing, but thinkest thou that I am about to appear 
before God ? Thou knowest how I have lived." He had 
lived a life of sin, but for the last two years had done heroic 
penance. When they came to put him in his shroud they 
found that he had been wearing a hair-shirt. The maker 
of wise fables had given in his own last days the best lesson 
of true wisdom, that the only peace is in keeping the com- 
mandments of God. So Lamartine, who in his old age 
returned to the wisdom of the faith which in the days of 
his strength he had treated as foolishness. So Boileau 
who said at the end : "It is very shameful to be still busy- 
ing myself with rhymes and all these Parnassian trifles 
when I ought to be thinking of nothing but the account I 
am prepared to go and render to God." So with the great 
Manzoni, a wanderer far from God; his wife, who had 
been a Protestant became a Catholic and Manzoni followed 
her into the Church. From that time on he desired only 



A LITANY OF PENITENTS 245 

to serve the faith which once he had derided. How good 
was God to them! He would not have them throw their 
souls away. As an old priest once said about Passaglia: 
"Never fear, he will die penitent. He has written too 
beautifully of the Mother of God to be allowed to perish." 
Passaglia, a true genius, eminent theologian, had written 
three volumes on the Immaculate Conception, and had had 
a leading part in preparing the definition of the dogma. 
Pride of intellect brought about his downfall and his ex- 
communication. It seemed a hopeless case. But some 
days before his death he retracted his errors and was recon- 
ciled to the church. 

It would be an endless task, indeed, to complete the 
litany of those who wandered far from God, who sought 
their joy in the cup of sin, and finding it all but vanity and 
affliction of soul came back to Him over the rugged road 
of the Cross to drink to the dregs the penitential cup of 
tears. It was thus they found their happiness. They 
would not have exchanged their hideous hair-shirt for the 
royal robes of kings. They knew that here, no matter how 
the world ridiculed their foolishness, was all wisdom. As 
the great dramatist says of Wolsey : 

His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; 
For then, and not till then, he felt himself, 
And found the happiness of being little ; 
And, to add greater honours to his age 
Than man could give him, he died fearing God. 



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